The Great Mouse Detective: The Heart Diamond Mystery
by Narwhals Forever
Summary: When a millionaire and his two children are kidnapped for a famous diamond, Basil of Baker Street comes to investigate. But this kidnapping is only scratching the surface of a very dangerous underground society of thieves, thugs and criminals. Familiar faces appear alongside new ones as Basil and Dawson try to recover the jewel and its owners before it's too late. (chap 5 edited)
1. Chapter 1

Hello all! After feeling pretty good about my last story, I've decided to publish a semi-sequel. This story is not based on a specific Sherlock story, but I'm feeling pretty good about it so far. The Great Mouse Detective and its characters do not belong to me, but to Disney.

Well, without further ado, here is the first chapter to my new story, The Heart Diamond Mystery! Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

* * *

><p>BANG!<p>

Mrs. Judson shrieked, dropping the cheese grater and block of cheddar she had been grating and rushed ou of the kitchen into the parlor. Her normally cozy, if not a bit cluttered, parlor had been covered in what looked like a sort of marshmallow substance. It was white, soft, and splattered everywhere…the bookshelves, the ceiling, wallpaper, carpet, even the comfy chairs had been coated in the fluffy stuff. The once comforting hearth had been snuffed out by a blanket of the white stuff, making the room look and feel more and more like an indoors winter wonderland.

Mrs. Judson looked around in horror, having no idea what to do about the situation except stare open-mouthed at the gargantuan mess. What had happened here?

"Ah, Mrs. Judson," a voice behind her spoke.

Mrs. Judson screamed and whirled around, searching for the source of the voice in what she had thought was an empty room. Noone seemed to be behind her, save the wall (which hadn't been spared a good, thick coating of the snow or whatever it was). Suddenly, however, the foam on the wall began to move, and Mrs. Judson realized that the two snow-covered spots on the wall that were blinking at her were somebody's eyes. A great big pair of familiar, emerald-green eyes.

"Mr. Basil!" Mrs. Judson screeched. "What in Heaven's name?"

Basil of Baker Street moved his arms and legs, unplastering himself from the wall. As wall and body separated, he made a nice Basil-shaped patch of clean wallpaper on the wall. Likewise, the back of him had been left clean, revealing his usual lounge jacket outfit, but the front had been so coated with the snow (what was that stuff anyway?) that he had blended almost seamlessly in with the rest of the now-white parlor.

"I do apologize for the mess, my dear Mrs. Judson," Basil said, wiping the foam off of his face with one hand, "I do believe I added too much baking soda."

"Mr. Basil! What is all of this? What have you done to my parlor?!" Mrs. Judson was quite beside herself.

"It was an experiment," Basil answered vaguely. In truth, it wasn't so much of an experiment as much as it was something to do. It had been a slow week for cases, and without something to concentrate on, Basil was forced to endure his most loathed enemy…boredom. In an effort to ward off his opponent, Basil had mixed together a concoction of chemicals to try and develop a new sort of fire extinguishing substance. Fortunately for him, it extinguished fires beautifully. Unfortunately, it also had a tendency to explode out of the beakers he had been using. Now, instead of the despicable scum called 'boredom,' he was facing a roomful of Aqueous Film-Forming Foam and a very displeased landlady.

Basil shook the foam off his clothes, causing it to splatter on the woman's skirt. She stared at the spot like it was the scum of the earth.

Basil flashed his most charming smile at the seething woman. "Eh-heh," he chuckled sheepishly, "Mrs. Judson, have I ever brought to your attention how lovely you always look?"

"Mr. Basil!" Mrs. Judson would have none of it. "I have had it up to here with your antics! This time-" she bustled briefly into the kitchen, and Basil took the opportunity to check his fingernails. "-you'll be cleaning this up!" Mrs. Judson finished, coming out of the kitchen with a broom and a dustpan. She shoved the cleaning supplies into Basil's arms, where he looked incredulously down at the materials.

"Me?!" He cried. "But-"

"No buts, Mr. Basil. Clean it up this instant!" And with that, Mrs. Judson stormed out of the room, muttering fiercely under her breath.

Basil huffed like a small child being told to clean up his room, briefly being surprised at Mrs. Judson's sudden assertiveness (usually the 'eyes' line worked on her; Basil guessed that this time the damage was too much to have any compliments change her attitude). He glanced about the room at his task and sighed dramatically. Stooping down, he began to start clearing the foam off the carpet.

The door opened, sending a blast of frigid air into the room. Dr. David Q. Dawson stepped in merrily, holding a bag of groceries. "The grocer had fresh fruit today! Imported from South America!" he said cheerfully. "They even had this strange new fruit that I've never heard of before. It was a bana-bonan-bana-"

"Banana?" Basil sighed, not looking up from the floor.

Dawson nodded merrily. "Yes, yes, that's it!" He opened his eyes and looked around the room for the first time since his arrival. "Good Heavens," Dr. Dawson murmured in awe. "What happened in here?"

"An experiment, of sorts," Basil explained, now facing the dilemma of the foam sticking to the bristles of the broom. "Darn this- I was bored," Basil said. "I needed something to do."

Dr. Dawson gave a nod. "I see," he murmured. In his time at 22 ½ Baker Street, Dawson had taken particular note of Basil's hatred of being bored ('The most despicable, offensive, absolute worst thing on Earth," Basil often called it). He had also taken note of how Basil was willing to go to ridiculous lengths to combat being bored, whether it be overanalyze everything and everyone in his vicinity or indulge in bizarre, made-up experiments like this one. Seeing as it was now Basil who had the task of cleaning up the remnants of the 'experiment' and not Mrs. Judson, Dr. Dawson guessed that Mrs. Judson had finally put her foot down about his outrageous antics.

Having heard a new voice in the parlor, Mrs. Judson poked her little head out the kitchen door. "Dr. Dawson!" She cried, cheering up instantly. "Be a dear and bring those groceries in 'ere, Doctor."

Dr. Dawson smiled, his mustache turning up in his signature little u-shape.

Gingerly stepping through the foam, Dr. Dawson passed the pouting detective and went into the kitchen, plopping the bags of groceries on the table.

Mrs. Judson shuffled over and sniffed the bag, closing her eyes in pleasure. "I've got me a weakness for that jasmine tea," she murmured, reaching in and pulling out a tin of dried tea leaves. "Imported direct from India, too? Goodness, isn't that fine?"

Dr. Dawson beamed. "I knew how much you liked it. Got a good bargain for it too," he said, smilng.

Mrs. Judson grinned back at him, clutching her tin of tea leaves like it was the most priceless thing in the world. Her eyes were wide and shining as she looked up at the doctor, who blushed slightly.

"Mrs. Judson!" Basil called from the parlor, breaking the mood in the kitchen. Mrs. Judson sighed, setting the tea leaves on the table and picking up her skirt to bustle through the kitchen door to the parlor.

Basil was struggling in what looked like a death match between broom and mouse, his inner symphony orchestra that usually played his theme tune staying decidedly quiet. "How do you work this infernal contraption?" He cried, trying desperately to maneuver the broom cross the floor.

"It might help if ye take your foot off it before trying ta move it," Mrs. Judson said.

Basil looked down and sheepishly removed his foot from the bristles, which had prevented him from being able to move the broom very much. "Aha, yes, I see."

After being carefully watched by Mrs. Judson for three hours as he cleaned up the parlor, Basil had successfully scrubbed the room clean. Mrs. Judson had politely taken her leave to go to bed.

"Well done, Basil," Dr. Dawson congratulated him from his seat in front of the newly made fire. He sipped the cup of jasmine tea Mrs. Judson had brewed him.

Basil made no response, simply collapsed in the fluffy armchair, exhausted. He'd gained a new appreciation for Mrs. Judson's housekeeping, that was for certain.

There was a knock at the door. "I'll get it," Dawson said cheerfully as Basil mumbled a quick thank-you from his seat on the armchair.

Dawson straightened his bow tie before opening the door. "Yes, may I-" he began, before being pushed roughly to the side by a rather skinny young man wearing ragged clothes. Dr. Dawson harrumphed at his rudeness.

"Where's Mr. Basil?" the young mouse asked in his thick Cockney accent, looking from side to side. "Oh, there you is!" He said, spotting the tired detective lying limply in the red armchair. The ragged mouse with tangled brown fur and freckles, looking to be in his early teens, squatted down to eye level with the detective. "Mr. Basil, I've got a bit of a problem," the mouse said. "Per'aps you can help me?"

Basil frowned and opened one eye, regarding the mouse with a quick, analytical glance. Apparently having found nothing of immediate interest, he closed his eye again. "I'm tied up at the moment," Basil muttered irritably. "I'm afraid I'm not available until later."

"But Mr. Basil, it's an emergency!" The mouse squeaked.

"Oh, I'm sure." Basil mumbled sarcastically.

"It is! It's about a couple a' kids!" The mouse said. "I saw it wit me own eyes! A big man in black went and scooped 'em off the street! Kidnapped 'em, he did!"

Basil's eyes shot open, all previously sapped energy restored, and he leaned forward in his chair. "What did you say?" He demanded sharply.

The young one backed up, alarmed at the detective's sudden animation. "Kidnapped, sir! They've been a' kidnapped!"

Dr. Dawson, who'd been watching the scene from the sidelines, as he usually did during Basil's introductions with clients, gasped. That Dr. Dawson had always been a soft-hearted soul was undeniable, but his one true weakness was children. The mere thought that anyone would do something to harm a child lit a rarely seen flame of anger inside the good doctor's heart.

The young mouse dug into the pocket of his hole-infested pants and pulled out a crumpled and stained newspaper clipping that looked as though it had been fished out of a garbage can. He smoothed it out as best he could and held it up so that Basil could see. It was an article about one of last week's cases, in which Basil had solved the burglary of a valuable brooch for the Earl of Worcestershire. "I ain't able to read, Mr. Basil, but everyone on the streets knows who you is. I looked for the house in this picture," the mouse pointed at the photograph of 22 ½ Baker Street, "and I found you, cuz I thought you might be able to help."

Basil's eyes shone with a sudden interest. "What's your name, young man?" He asked.

"E-Edward, sir. Chrisen'd Edward Hawthorne, but everyone on the street calls me Sticky."

"Where are your parents?"

"Haven't got any." The young boy lifted his chin defiantly. "Ya wanta make somethin' of it?"

Basil regarded the scrawny young boy trying to be threatening. The clothes had not been patched in a while, supporting Edward (or Sticky, apparently)'s claim that he hadn't any mother to give him new clothes or at least patch up his old ones. His clothes were too short for him, his wrists and ankles showing from under the hems of the shirt sleeves and pant legs, but they also hung off of his emaciated frame. His face was grimy and thin, dirt and muck plastering his fur in stiff, patches. Obviously an orphan from the streets. However, the waver in his voice and slight tremor in his hands showed him to be not quite as tough as he tried to make himself look-not inherently threatening.

"No," Basil said, "I don't. Do, however, tell me about this kidnapping. What exactly did you see?"

"I was sittin' on the street corner down by the docks," Sticky explained, "Tryin' to scout out a fat wallet to pick, so maybe I could get lunch." Sticky paused, his face draining of color. "You-you won't go to the police about that, will ye, Mr. Basil?"

Basil's eyes softened and he shook his head. "Of course not. Just go on about the kidnapping. Don't leave one detail out. Go on," he said, flapping his hand impatiently.

Sticky breathed a sigh of relief and continued. "Well, there was this little girl, real small, walkin' home with her brother. They didn't have no pockets to pick, but they looked pretty well ta do. New clothes, fancy walk," Sticky demonstrated by copying the walk, standing up straight and talking leisurely steps across the floor. "Me an' the boys called out at them. Mockin' them, like. Askin' them what they was doin' out of their neighborhood, ya know." Sticky's ears went a bit pink in embarrassment. "I felt a bit bad about that, ya know, little girl stared at us, got a bit teared up. Boy look'd like he was going to come over an' yell at us, but decided we wasn't worth it or somethin'. Acted like we was nobody, just kept walking, like most people do." Sticky cleared his throat. "Anyways, the girl was wearin' this big brooch. All fancy, too heavy for 'er. I think that was wot that man was after."

"What man?" Asked Basil.

"There was this man, see, couldn't see his face cos his hat was pulled down so far. Wore this big black coat and gloves. Comes out of bloomin' nowhere and grabs the girl."

"And the young man accompanying her? What did he do?"

"He started yellin' at the man, tried to pull her away, but he was a big one, this man was. Didn' pay no attention, jus' scooped up the boy wit' his other hand and went off inter the night. Didn't see where they was going."

"Oh, good Heavens," Dr. Dawson interjected, worriedly wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

If Basil was disturbed by the story, he didn't show it. His focus was on Sticky and the details.

"So a large man wearing black scooped up the girl and the boy and disappeared, is that correct?" Basil asked.

"Yessir, just like I told ye, sir."

"Why didn't you or any of the other boys go to the police?"

"A couple of street kids talkin' bout someone getting' kidnapped?" Sticky crossed his arms and shook his head. "They'd think we was just makin' it up." He unfolded his arms and looked up at Basil, his eyes wide. "That's why I comes to you, sir. Thought you could help."

Basil's mouth tightened into a line. "I see." He narrowed his eyes a bit, thinking. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his pipe and a match. He struck the match against the edge of the mantel and held the small flame to his pipe, puffing. He smoked for a moment before plucking the pipe out of his mouth and looking down at Sticky. "These children…what did they look like?"

Sticky thought for a moment. "I don't know, sir…I guess the girl had blonde fur, blue eyes, green dress. Too many ruffles. The boy had black fur, fancy coat, smart pants." Basil noted a tinge of jealousy in Sticky's voice. Sticky thought for another moment, then added, "the pin on the girl's dress was blue."

Basil made a sound that sounded like an approving grunt. "Very good, very good. And was the pin a jewel of some sort?"

"I dunno, I think so." Sticky paused. "Yes, I'm sure it was."

"Excellent." Basil said, pacing. "You think the man that attacked them was after the jewel, then?"

"'Course 'e was. Wot else could he get from takin' some kids like 'e did?"

"Ransom, naturally," Basil said.

Sticky didn't understand. "What?"

Basil rolled his eyes, taking his pipe out of his mouth to explain. "Holding hostages in exchange for money, usually paid by the family of the hostage," he said impatiently.

"Oh."

"What I'm confused about, however, is what two well-to-do children were doing by the docks. Surely they, of all people know, that it isn't a very good environment down there, certainly not for children." Basil whirled on Sticky. "When you were calling out to them, asking them why they were out of their neighborhood, what did they say?"

Sticky backed up a few paces from Basil, whose face was inches from his. "They, they didn't say nuffink, Mr. Basil. They both looked pretty upset, though."

"Hm." Basil put the pipe back in his mouth, considering it all. While Basil was quiet, Dr. Dawson approached Sticky.

"Would you like to sit down, just for a moment?" He asked Sticky kindly. "Perhaps I can persuade Mrs. Judson to give you a couple of her famous cheese crumpets."

Sticky's ears perked up and his eyes brightened. "You have food?" He asked eagerly.

Dr. Dawson chuckled. "Of course," he said. "Let me fetch you something." Dr. Dawson waddled over to the kitchen. "Mrs. Judson?" he called. "Mrs. Judson?"

"Yes, yes, what is it?" Mrs. Judson entered the kitchen, yawning and wrapping her robe around her. Dr. Dawson flushed in embarrassment.

"So sorry, I was just wondering where you put the crumpets?" He asked.

Mrs. Judson tilted her head. "Why?"

"Well, you see, there's a little boy come to see Basil, he's a bit hungry. He's an orphan, you see, and-"

"An orphan? Oh, the poor dear!" Mrs. Judson whooshed past Dr. Dawson and opened a cabinet, pulling out a glass jar filled to the brim with stacked crumpets. She hurriedly took out a few crumpets and placed them on a plate, rushing out to the parlor to give them to Sticky.

Dr. Dawson poked his head out the kitchen door, looking on as Mrs. Judson fussed over Sticky, who looked surprised and a little frightened to be met with such smothering attention.

"Oh, you poor dear, I'll have you cleaned up in no time! And you're so thin, and your clothes are such a fright! I'll mend those for you as soon as we get you a bath, it's clear you'll be needing one of those," Mrs. Judson was gushing, poking and prodding at Sticky. Finally, Basil intervened, setting his pipe down on the table and peeling Mrs. Judson off his client.

"Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs. Judson, that will be all," Basil said, pushing her aside (not unkindly). Mrs. Judson ran out to get a bath prepared for the orphan, who immediately grabbed a crumpet and began stuffing it into his mouth.

"Did you notice anything unusual about the children's appearances or behaviors?" Basil asked.

"Nope," Sticky answered, his mouth full (he sprayed some crumbs when he spoke) and wiped his fingers on his filthy shirt. He paused. "Actually, the boy had some sort of thing on 'is ear," Sticky recalled. "Some sort of bite mark. Looked like a cat got at 'im."

Basil almost dropped his pipe. "A bite mark out of his ear?"

"Yessir, a little bite right out of the top."

Basil scurried out of the room, leaving Dr. Dawson and Sticky to sit in bewildered silence, broken only by the sound of Sticky's chewing. Suddenly, Basil returned, holding a clean newspaper. He shoved it in Sticky's face.

"The boy, the girl, they looked like this?"

Sticky leaned back to see the picture better. On the newspaper was a photograph of a rather wealthy-looking family…a tall, rather big-boned mouse with his whiskers neatly curled in a handlebar-mustache type fashion, a slender lady mouse with her fur wrapped up in a bun, a tiny mouseling with blonde ringlets and an older boy mouse with neatly combed fur and one ear with a notch taken out of it, indeed looking like a cat had tried eating him and had missed, merely nicking his ear instead of biting his head off.

Sticky blinked, recognition crossing his face. "That's them! That's them! That's them, right there on the newspaper!"

Basil laughed triumphantly. "Aha! Brilliant!"

Dawson blinked in confusion. "Basil, what's going on? Do you know these children?"

Basil nodded fervently. "Oh, yes, I do, Dawson. Those poor kidnapped children are none other than the children of Harold Colby Muenster!"

Dawson gasped. "The millionaire?"

"Precisely!" Basil waved the paper in the air. "These children were not just ordinary children. These were Clara and Michael Muenster, heirs to perhaps the biggest fortune in London, second only to the royal family themselves! And that," Basil said, pointing to the photo again, to the mother's chest, which sported a large brooch, "is the Heart Diamond!"

The Heart Diamond was well-known for its beauty and its unusual color. Famous for its blue coloring said to be as rich in its cobalt color as the Caribbean Sea, where it was discovered, it had a rich history of being stolen repeatedly throughout the years. Two murders and countless robberies had taken place over this diamond, so much some called it "the Bloody Heart Diamond" in tribute to its violent history. According to this article, it had resurfaced from years of unknown whereabouts in a marketplace in Morocco, where the famous millionaire Harold Colby Muenster had found it and bought it for a considerable sum as a gift for his wife, Agatha.

Dawson's eyes flickered over the page. "My God," he whispered. "Those children were kidnapped because of that jewel!"

"Exactly so. And we are going to pay the Muenster household a visit to find out a little more about this kidnapping."

Dawson cast a nervous glance at the clock. "It's a bit late, Basil…"

"Nonsense," said Basil, who already had his coat on and was buttoning it rapidly. There was a manic gleam in his eyes and he was grinning broadly. "The longer we wait, the greater the chance of that diamond being lost forever, and," Basil added, a frown flickering across his face, "the greater the chance of those children getting hurt."

That made Dr. Dawson reach for his coat. "Of course," he muttered. "The children…can't waste a moment."

Basil flung open the door and barged into the night, Dr. Dawson following as quickly as he could, pulling his jacket on. Sticky watched from the armchair, reaching for another crumpet. This was getting interesting. The talk of a millionaire's children and kidnapping and diamonds excited his imagination as much as it would any other thirteen-year-old boy (although the kids seemed like rich little snots, he still didn't want them to get hurt, neither). But he was rather comfortable in this cozy little parlor, and didn't want to leave quite yet. The fire was so nice and warm, and the crumpets tasted so good, he couldn't bring himself to leave just yet. He decided that it would be such a waste to not finish the crumpets that the nice, if not a bit smothering, lady gave him, and decided he would wait until he finished the plate before back out into the cold night.

Mrs. Judson appeared, holding a towel and a brush. "Alright, young man, let's get you a bath," she said brightly.

Sticky dropped his crumpet in horror.

* * *

><p>The misty streets of London were cold and wet, and Dawson rubbed his hands together in an effort to warm them a bit. Basil was practically racing down the streets in excitement over the new case, having to stop every bit or so to wait for the wheezing doctor to catch up.<p>

"Doctor, I'm terribly sorry, old chap, but could you please hurry up at least a little?" Basil called, tapping his foot impatiently.

Dr. Dawson sighed and jogged to the end of the block, where the antsy detective was waiting. Dawson bent over, panting. "S-sorry, Basil," he apologized.

Basil waved off the apology. "Never mind, never mind," he said, pointing at the very large house in the upscale neighborhoods of London. By far the most elegant place of residence in that part of London, it was the biggest house Dawson had ever seen, excepting Buckingham Palace.

"Come on, Dawson!" Basil said excitedly, dashing to the home. Exasperated at the prospect of more running, Dawson jogged as quickly as he could behind the younger, more energetic detective.

Next to the gargantuan human sized door, there was the smaller door where the Muenster family lived. That door was a large mahogany masterpiece with a beautiful stained glass window in it. Basil reached up and pulled the thread that was the doorbell. Bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for the door to be answered, Basil cast a glance back at Dawson and smiled broadly. Dawson grinned back, uncertainly.

Finally, the door was answered by a young blonde mouse wearing a maid's uniform. She looked Basil and Dawson over and narrowed her eyes suspiciously at them.

"Who are you?" She asked in a French accent.

"Basil of Baker Street, at your service," Basil said, giving her a dramatic bow. When he straightened, he gestured to Dawson, who gave an acknowledging nod to the maid. "And this is my associate, Dr. Dawson."

"How do you do," Dr. Dawson said.

The maid's eyes widened. "The detective?" She murmured, surprised.

"Who is it, Angelique?" A woman's voice called. Another woman appeared, one that Dr. Dawson recognized from the picture. "Who are you?" The woman said.

"It is Mr. Basil of Baker Street, Mrs. Muenster," Angelique the Maid said. Basil smiled charmingly at Mrs. Muenster and bowed.

"Agatha Muenster, I am honored to meet you," he said, taking Mrs. Muenster's hand in his and brushing it briefly with his lips.

Mrs. Muenster blinked. "The pleasure's all mine," she said. She looked from Basil to Dawson and cleared her throat. "I didn't call for you."

"No, but I believe we've come across some information about your missing children," Basil said.

Mrs. Muenster paled. "Clara and Michael?" She whispered. "You know where they are?"

"We're working on it," Basil said. "May we come in?"

Mrs. Muenster stepped aside, allowing Basil and Dr. Dawson to enter. She looked nervously at the street before closing the door behind them.

Angelique the Maid led them by candlelight to the sitting room. She turned the gaslights on, washing the room in light. It was an exquisite room, rivaling the concert hall in Covent Garden that Basil and he had visited the month before. The room had been wallpapered in light blue and white stripes, accented with gold trim. A large, fancy fireplace took up a good part of the wall. Two large, comfy-looking blue armchairs and a sofa sat in the middle of the room. The windows were covered by pale gold drapes.

"Please, sit." Mrs. Muenster said, gesturing to the armchairs. Dawson obliged immediately, taking the opportunity to wipe off his forehead with his handkerchief and tucking it back in his pocket. Basil sat down on the edge of the sofa, and Mrs. Muenster sat across from them, in an armchair a little apart from them both. She leaned in. "You said you know what happened to my children?"

"We believe they were kidnapped for the Heart Diamond," Basil explained. "According to an eyewitness account, your daughter was wearing the brooch when they walked down by the docks today. A man came and snatched her up first, then followed suit with the boy and disappeared."

Mrs. Muenster gasped. "They were kidnapped?"

"Unfortunately. We were wondering if you could answer some questions about them."

Mrs. Muenster leaned in. "Do you know who took my husband too?"

Basil, who had been about to say something, closed his mouth in surprise, registering what she just said. Dr. Dawson gasped, "Mrs. Muenster, your husband has gone missing too?"

Mrs. Muenster nodded.

Basil grunted in annoyance with himself. "That's why there was no hat or shoes by the door and he didn't come downstairs," he muttered. "I noticed that, I should have known he was gone. Of course he's gone missing. Of course!"

"Basil!" Dr. Dawson scolded. "We should listen to Mrs. Muenster's explanation."

Mrs. Muenster swallowed and reached into the pocket of her robe, pulling out an envelope. "Two days ago I received this in the mail," she explained, her voice wavering. "My husband was in America, New York City, for business. He never came home."

Basil took the envelope and opened it. His eyes flickered over the page.

"What does it say, Basil?" Dawson asked.

Basil cleared his throat and read aloud, "If you ever want to see your beloved husband again, take the Heart Diamond to the docks of London two days from now and collect him. If you tell any cops I will find out and take your children too.

"Rather crudely made," Basil remarked about the letter, inspecting the writing. "From the slanting of the writing, the author seems to have tried to disguise his writing by writing with his left hand instead of his right. The man who wrote this letter, as I am quite sure it was a man, was not too old, perhaps in his early thirties, and unmarried, as there are no marks where his wedding ring would have rubbed the paper when he wrote the letter. He hails from the East side of London," Basil continued, sniffing the paper and grimacing slightly, "and drinks to the point of addiction. In essence," he concluded, handing the paper back to Mrs. Muenster, "your average, everyday thug."

Mrs. Muenster took the paper, not once taking her eyes off Basil's face. "I told my children to stay out of it, that I would take care of it, but Michael was such a wayward young man, I suppose he decided to take matters into his own hands and take his sister down to… it was my fault. Ever since he was little and almost got swallowed by that cat I promised to keep a special eye on them both. Now they're gone…" she faltered, looking up at Basil. "Do…do you…" she stuttered. "Do you think the man who wrote this letter took my children?"

Basil studied her face a moment, before answering, "No."

Mrs. Muenster stared at the ground, her eyes filling with tears. She brought a hand to her mouth. "Michael said they were going to their grandmother's house, so I gave the nanny the night off. I thought they were spending the night there, but if someone saw them get kidnapped…" Mrs. Muenster started to sob.

Basil rocked back in his seat, staring at Mrs. Muenster, then giving Dawson a panicked look. If there was one thing Basil was bad at, it was comforting emotional clients. Dr. Dawson understood and offered his services, handing Mrs. Muenster a handkerchief and patting her gently on the back.

"There, there," he said gently.

When Mrs. Muenster's sobs quieted, Basil said, "The man who wrote this note was small, about 6 inches tall but only weighing about 3 ounces or so. The man who kidnapped your children was described as a big fellow, one who could lift both children effortlessly. There isn't any way that they are the same man."

Mrs. Muenster looked up, her fur streaked wet from the tears, her mouth open in awe. "How did you know all that from the letter?" She asked.

"The pencil moved easily across the paper, his fingers not getting in the way, which they would have if the man was of a normal weight and wasn't as thin as he is. Also, some of the writing is shifted from where the man's knee would have bumped the table, only able to do that if the man was exceptionally tall and could not fit the chair he was sitting in."

Mrs. Muenster stared at him.

Basil grinned slightly. "Elementary, really."

Mrs. Muenster seemed to decide something. She straightened and wiped her tears away. "I want you to find my family," she said.

Dawson looked at Basil, who nodded. "I'll do what I can. In the meantime, I need you to answer a few questions."

Mrs. Muenster was calm and dry-eyed throughout the rest of the interview. Dawson reached into his pocket and located his notepad and a pencil, and took notes as Basil asked Mrs. Muenster many questions.

"Has your husband fallen into bad company lately?" Asked Basil.

"I don't get involved in the business much," Mrs. Muenster replied. "But he's been acting differently lately. Just before he left for the business trip, he was acting nervous, jumpy. He didn't even take me out for evening walks like we used to," Mrs. Muenster said sadly.

Basil narrowed his eyes, longing for his pipe, which helped him think. "I see. Did he say anything about why he has been so nervous?"

"Well…" she paused for a moment, probably running through the events of the past week or so in her head. "Actually," she seemed to remember something, "I remember the day before he left, he, he told me that if anything seemed a little strange while he was gone, I should go to Old Swampy's Tavern and ask for someone…Higgins, he said to ask for Higgins. And I asked why, and he said, 'just in case.' I guess I forgot about that after that."

Basil thought that over. "Thank you, Mrs. Muenster. So sorry to have disturbed you at such a late hour." He flashed a charming smile at her and got up from his seat, adjusting his detective hat.

Dawson looked up from his notepad in surprise. "Basil, already?" He asked, bewildered. "That's all?"

Basil smiled thinly. "That's all. Come on, old chap."

Basil marched out of the room. Dawson smiled apologetically at Mrs. Muenster and quickly followed Basil down the hall and out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Basil and Dawson opened the door to 22 ½ Baker Street to find a very wet young Sticky wearing a pair of too-big pants and a shirt that hung off of him and hid his hands completely run towards them. He had bubbles in his hair and his soaking fur, which was revealed to be a much lighter shade of brown than previously thought with all the dirt cleaned off it, was plastered to his head. A sniff made Dr. Dawson realize that he also smelled faintly of lavender.

"Help me!" Sticky cried, almost tripping over the too-big pant legs and pushing past them to hide behind Basil. "The woman's stark raving mad! Tried to choke me in bubbles, she did! And smell me! I smell like a bloomin' flower garden!"

"Are those my trousers?" Asked Basil incredulously.

"Come back here, you silly boy," Mrs. Judson called, marching into the room, holding a comb. "Come here so I can comb that mane of fur and make you presentable!"

"AARGH!" Sticky cried, making a dash for the door. Basil reached out and nimbly caught Sticky by the shirt collar, holding him fast. Sticky struggled and kicked in Basil's grasp, but Basil's grip remained firm.

"Now, young man," Basil told Sticky, "You're going to tell me what you know about anyone named Higgins."

Sticky stopped struggling. "What about 'im?" he asked suspiciously.

"Mrs. Muenster was told to ask for Higgins at old Swampy's Tavern by her husband, who ahs also disappeared. I was wondering if an insider like you knew him."

"Yeah, I know him." Sticky tried to pull out of Basil's grasp. Basil let him go. Sticky dusted off his shirt.

"Who is he? What does he do?"

"Ah, ah," Sticky said, raising a finger. "I don't say a word until ou call her off," he pointed at Mrs. Judson.

Mrs. Judson gasped. "How rude!" She cried indignantly. "Now you listen here, young man, I'm going to comb your hair whether you-"

"Thank you, yes, Mrs. Judson," Basil said quickly, taking her by the arm and leading her to the kitchen, "I'm feeling a bit peckish, perhaps you could fix me up some crumpets or something. Yes?" He answered his own question before she could, "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Judson." And with that, he closed the kitchen door behind her and locked it. Turning back to Sticky and Dr. Dawson, he was suddenly all business.

"Now," he said to Sticky, "Who is Higgins?"

"Ruddy coward," Sticky said, making as though to spit on the ground, but, catching Basil's and Dawson's glares, decided against it. "Where me an' me mates steals to makes a livin', Higgins steals for anyone who'll pay him enough. He's bright, I suppose, but he cheats and double-crosses. Used to work for Ratigan, you know," Sticky mumbled, "But he bit off more than 'e could chew on that one. Bill Higgins talks tough, but 'e can't fight worth a penny. I beat him up once," Sticky mentioned proudly.

Dawson glanced at Basil and could tell Basil was thinking hard. Basil narrowed his eyes, rubbing his chin. "Used to work for Ratigan, eh? What does he look like?" Basil asked.

Sticky shrugged. "He's a lizard. Tall, skinny chap."

"You said he'd work for anyone who pays him enough."

"Yessir. He'd do anything for a tuppence."

"I see." A small smile crept up on Basil's face, but only for a moment. "Where would one find this Higgins?"

"He hangs out at the Old Swampy's tavern. He's been hanging around there lookin' for a job ever since old Ratty died."

"Excellent. Thank you, Sticky."

Dawson looked warily at Basil. "I suppose we're going to pay this Higgins fellow a visit," he mumbled tiredly.

"Yep!" Basil said brightly.

"I do hate going here all the time," Dr. Dawson muttered, trying in vain to pull his too-small shirt over his chubby belly and adjust his straw-colored wig at the same time. "It smells downright awful."

"Come, come, old chap," Basil said, adjusting his fake mustache. "We mustn't worry about the trivial things. Think of the case!"

Despite the glare Dr. Dawson gave him, Basil smiled widely and marched into the bar. Sighing, Dawson scurried after.

The place was loud and full of cigarette smoke, as always. Thugs, thieves, and other scum gambled, drank, and threw things at the unfortunate performer onstage, a tomato-splattered, frail-looking mouse with a ventriloquist dummy on his lap.

"Who are we looking for again, Basil?" Dawson whispered.

"Bill Higgins. Tall, skinny lizard boy. Sticky said we'd find him here." Sticky had been left at home, where Mrs. Judson was probably terrorizing him with the comb or a bar of soap or something.

Dawson looked around. He couldn't see anyone who fit that description. The cigar smoke was too thick for him to see through.

Basil's eyes were sharp enough, though. "There," he whispered, pointing to a nearby corner. "There he is!" Basil started to approach him.

The lizard was leaning against the wall, dressed in pretty shabby-looking clothes. He snuffed out his cigar in a nearby ashtray. Ah, yes. Basil recognized him now. One of Ratigan's toadies, the one who had given Mr. Flaversham cue cards on what to say at the Queen's jubilee. Basil remembered tying him up with the other henchmen those three or four months ago.

Basil cleared his throat, putting on a heavy Cockney accent. "Oi, you know where Bill 'Iggins is at?" He asked.

The lizard turned towards him, looking him suspiciously up and down. "Who's asking?" He asked, his Cockney accent rivaling Basil's fake one.

"A friend," Basil said, smarmily extending a hand to Higgins, who shook his hand cautiously. "I need a bit of information, see."

Higgins perked up. "How much money 'ave you got?" He asked eagerly.

"I got two hundred pounds stashed in a secret place," Basil lied, "I'll show you where it's at if you cn get me some help."

Basil had expected him to be an ordinary street thug that did anything you told them, but Sticky was right in saying that Bill Higgins was cowardly, but not foolish.

"I ain't going nowhere until you tell me what it's all about," Bill said, crossing his arms. "I don't see the money, you don't see no work."

Basil thought for a little bit, then came up with an idea. For, as bright as Higgins might be, he was nowhere near as smart as Basil of Baker Street.

"Look, mate, the job is the money. There's a house down the street there that's completely empty, the family's gone for a visit to France, won't be back for a week. I can't figure out a way to get in, though. The front and back door are locked from the inside. Word is on the street that you can jiggle locks and get 'em to open, but I can't. But if you come with me and me mate here to the house, per'aps you can get in and we'll wait by the front door. Then, once you get the money from the bedrooms, you can come to the front door, we'll split it and get out of there."

Bill's eyes gleamed with greed, and Basil knew immediately that he was going to fall for it hook, line, and sinker. By pretending to be naïve and trusting, Basil knew that Bill would try to manipulate it to his best advantage. Bill was already planning to go to the house and jiggle the locks and steal the money while Basil and Dawson waited outside, then open the back door and make a getaway with all of the money, leaving Basil and Dawson at the front to take the fall.

"Alright, I'll do it," Bill said, and as Basil and Dawson ushered him out of the bar, Basil's inner symphony orchestra burst into a loud, peppy chorus of Basil's theme tune.

As they walked down the misty streets in the slums of London, Bill looked around, scanning the area for any houses that looked easy to rob.

"Is it that house there?" He pointed, "or there?"

"Nope," Basil said, smiling to himself. "Oh, turn here."

Basil steered Bill into a dead-end, Dawson closely following.

When he realized it was a dead end, Bill blinked, confused. "What is this?" He asked. "Where's the house?"

Basil's smarmy persona faded into the non-nonsense interrogation side of his personality. "Don't lie to me. Did you write the ransom note asking for the Heart Diamond in exchange for Harold Colby Muenster?"

Bill stared wide-eyed at Basil for a moment, then started to sprint out of the alleyway. He didn't realize, however, that Dawson was blocking his path until it was too late.

"Oof!" Bill exclaimed, bouncing off Dawson and landing on his bottom in the middle of the alley. Basil reached down and picked him up by the shirt collar, turning him around so that he and Basil were inches apart.

Basil ripped the false mustache off, glaring at Bill. "Answer the question!" He whispered sharply.

Like most cowards do, Bill Higgins crumbled under the pressure. "I didn't want to hurt anybody!" He sniffed, tears coming to his eyes. "I didn't want to, I swear! I just wrote the not because they told me to. I needed the money. I was scared. I didn't want to hurt anybody at all! Please don't turn me in, Mr. Basil, sir! I can't go back to jail!"

Basil rolled his eyes. "Stop your sniveling," he ordered, disgusted. "I said, stop it!"

Bill stopped. "Sorry," he sniffed.

"Did you write the ransom note?"

"Yes," Bill admitted, looking guiltily at the floor.

"Did you have anything to do with the kidnapping of Mr. Harold Colby Muenster?"

Bill shook his head fervently. "No, Mr. Basil sir, I just wrote the note, I swear!"

"Do you know who kidnapped him, then?"

"And the children?" Dawson added.

Bill looked uncomprehendingly at Dawson. "Children?" He asked. "What children? They didn't ever say nuffink about hurting any children."

"Who's they?" Basil demanded.

Bill paled, his bright green face turning a milky, nauseous light green. "I can't say, sir," he whispered, frightened.

"And why not?" Basil said crossly.

"They'll kill me if I snitch, sir!"

"They won't know it was you. I'll see to it nothing gets traced back to you." When there was no response from the lizard, Basil sighed. "Fine. I promise. There. Happy?"

Bill seemed to consider that for a moment, then said cautiously, "The Rakers, sir."

Basil frowned. "The who?"

"Shhh!" Bill shushed, "keep your voice down!"

"Sorry," Basil said, dropping his voice to a whisper.

Bill looked nervously at the street behind them then turned back to Basil. "The Rakers is a group of thieves and thugs. They is called that because they rake up a lot of money, see."

"I see," Basil said, nodding encouragingly.

"They wanted the diamond that man had-"

"Harold Colby Muenster," Dawson piped in helpfully.

"-Yeah, and they wanted it to sell, so they decided to kidnap him. They paid me five shillings to write the note, sir. But I didn't do the kidnappings, and they didn't say nuffink about kidnapping children."

"Who's the leader of these Rakers?" Basil inquired.

Bill squirmed, whining. "Oh, please, Mr. Basil," he pleaded, "please don't make me tell-"

Basil was firm. "Who is the leader?" He asked again.

Bill almost started crying again. "Captain Bigmouse," he choked out.

"Bigmouse," Basil echoed softly. "I've heard that name before…" Basil dropped Bill's shirt collar, and Bill crumpled in a heap on the filthy ground.

Dawson glanced at the lizard lying limply on the ground, then up at the thinking Basil. "Um, Basil?" He asked. "Are we finished here?"

"Mm?" asked Basil. "Oh, yes, we are, Dawson. Thank you, Mr. Higgins," Basil said to the lizard lying on the ground, who made a sound that sounded like a blend of whimper and moan. Basil stepped over Bill's body and grabbed Dr. Dawson's arm. "Shall we, Doctor?" He asked.


	3. Chapter 3

"Shhh," Mrs. Judson said as the two gentlemen, still in disguise, entered the room. "He's sleeping," she murmured tenderly. "His manners could use a bit of work, but he's still sweet."

Basil cast a quick obligatory glance over the sleeping Sticky and mumbled something like, "yes, yes, sweet enough to give me a toothache," and rushed over to his large tomes and journals (sme of which he had written) about every major crime and criminal in English history.

Mrs. Judson looked curiously at Dr. Dawson as Basil frantically started leafing through the pages of the books, muttering manically to himself. Dawson shook his head, mouthing the words, "just don't get in his way." Mrs. Judson shrugged and went back to gently stroking Sticky's cheek like a mother would to her baby.

In his little corner, Basil had completely shut the rest of the world out, thinking only about the lead in the case. He skimmed each page for the words "Rakers" and "Bigmouse."

At last, he found it. Leaping up from his seat and holding the book high in the air, Basil shouted, "AHA! I'VE FOUND IT!"

"SSSSSSHHHHHHHH!" Mrs. Judson and Dr. Dawson shushed angrily at him, a finger to their lips.

Basil's theme tune played defiantly loud in his head as he rushed over to them, grinning manically. He pointed at the wanted poster of a large sewer rat with an eye patch and a grizzly beard glaring up at them, like if he wasn't just a piece of paper he would absolutely take both of them in a fight.

"That despicable mistake of nature is none other than Captain Ronald A. Bigmouse, one of the worst pieces of slime to crawl the Earth, whose crimes are outnumbered and outevilled only by the late Professor Ratigan himself," Basil said happily. "And it just so happens that this smarmy sewer rat is behind an apparent underground secret society of thugs and thieves right here in London."

Dawson stared at Basil, who was quite beside himself with joy. "Why are you so happy about this, Basil?" Dawson asked wonderingly.

"Oh, because, my dear Dawson, now it's getting FUN!" Basil leapt up into the air with glee.

"Mr. Basil?" Mrs. Judson asked, interrupting.

"Oh, my dear, dear Mrs. Judson, what is it?" Basil asked joyfully.

As Dawson was, Mrs. Judson was a little taken aback by Basil's giddiness. "I…this note came for you when you were out. I thought it best to give it to you now."

Basil snatched the envelope and tore it open, not even bothering to see who it was from. Mrs. Judson retreated to the kitchen. His emerald green eyes floated across the words that were scrawled across the page. Slowly, Basil's enormous smile evaporated. Finally, he crumpled the note into a ball and flung it over his shoulder.

"Who was that from, Basil?" Dawson asked.

"Not important," Basil dismissed it, dancing over to his little corner and searching through his tomes for more clues.

Dawson frowned, his mustache turning down into an upside-down u and marching past Mrs. Judson to pick up the balled up piece of paper. He uncrumpled it and smoothed it out.

_Dearest Basil,_

_It's been quite a bit since I decided to write, but I figured that now was as good a time as any. As you well know, I have eyes around the city, practically all of Britain. A little bird told me that you were sniffing around that disgusting tavern again and were speaking to a certain Bill Higgins._

_I don't pretend to know what it is you're up to, but don't bother trying to keep me out of it becase I will find out eventually. I simply write to you as a warning not to dig yourself too deep into this. While Bill Higgins may not seem like a very dangerous man, which he isn't, the people he has been known to work for, including a recently deceased professor whom we all know you had a bit of a feud with, have proven to be very, very dangerous. Be careful, dear brother._

_I am, as always (whether you believe it or not) very sincerely yours,_

_Edmund_

Dr. Dawson re-read the letter about three times, gaping in awe. The sentence, "be careful, dear brother," particularly popped out in his head. He turned to Basil, who was excitedly flipping through pages of a particularly heavy-looking book.

"Basil!" Dr. Dawson cried. "You have a brother?!"

Basil rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately," he muttered, before saying louder, "Yes."

Dr. Dawson gaped at Basil, then back at the paper. He wasn't sure why, but the idea that Basil actually had a family struck Dawson as very, very unexpected. He wasn't sure why that came as such a shock, as naturally Basil, like everyone else, had to come from somewhere, but it was just a very, very surprising thing for some reason. However, from Basil's reaction to him and the letter, Dawson sensed there might be some bad blood between the two brothers, and decided to probe gently.

"What does he do?" Dawson inquired softly.

Basil sighed. "Something or other in government, not quite sure. Seems to always be pretty well-known among the important members of parliament and such, so he must do something worthwhile with his life," Basil said, adding quietly, "surprise as it may be…"

Dr. Dawson thought that it was probably best to leave Basil alone on the subject of this Edmund character. He glanced over at Stikcy, who was still fast asleep on the armchair, and wondered how the child was still sleeping after all the talking that had been taking place. Poor little boy must have been more exhausted than he had originally thought.

"What are you looking for, Basil?" asked Dawson, not taking his eyes off Sticky's sleeping form.

"Mm? Oh, I'm looking for something that will tell me a little more about these Rakers," Basil said. "Perhaps I can learn a little something about who is in the organization, where their headquarters are, et cetera, et cetera."

Dawson thought guiltily about the missing childen. "Shouldn't we go to the police about this?" Dawson asked.

Basil looked up at Dr. Dawson like he was an idiot. "The police won't have any better idea about where the family anf the diamond are than we do, so what's the point?" Basil looked back down at his book. "We'll go to them once we're closer to solving the case."

Dawson sighed, hoping that the children were okay and with their father, wherever they were. He prayed they'd find them soon.

Dawson sank into the other armchair and rested his head on his elbow. Within a matter of minutes he was snoring gently.

Basil continued to hunt almost obsessively for clues, all the while his mind working a mile a minute. He was a bit disturbed by the children missing, obviously. Basil's heart wasn't completely made of stone. But he couldn't focus on being worried, there was still work to do. One thing, though, still disturbed him. It was his brother's letter. Basil and Edmund lived in a severe case of what most people would call "sibling rivalry," where they both simply didn't get along very well. Edmund, though Basil would never admit it, was smarter than him, and knew it too. But unlike Basil, Edmund was lazy and didn't use his brilliant mind unless he thought he was getting something relly good out of it too, probably why he worked in government, so that he wouldn't have to do much but be a consultant and earn a lot of money for using simple logic. But while Edmund continued to sit back and be his smug little self all the live long day, Basil had work to do, whether or not Edmund approved.

Basil sighed and looked through the books some more. Let's see, let's see. Ah. Captain Ronald Bigmouse. Famous for being cold and efficient in his ways of gaining what he wanted. He mostly stole, having been a pirate on the high seas before losing his boat in a storm and floating to shore on a piece of driftwood. Now he stayed on land, hiring common thugs to jump people on the streets and brek into houses for money. But nothing about any "Rakers." Hmm.

When morning came, Dawson woke up to find Basil surrounded in open books, bags forming under his green eyes that still sparkled with tireless energy.

"Good Heavens, Basil," Dawson exclaimed. "Did you stay up all night?"

Basil didn't give a straight answer, just started off on a tangent. "I think I'm onto something, old chap. Listen here. It says that Captain Bigmouse is actually from Liverpool, and used to sail up and down the coast of America, near New York, robbing ships. However, he is still wanted in America on charges of piracy, and if he enters American territorial waters now and gets caught, he can go to prison. I think that he sent some thugs over to America to find Mr. Muenster and kidnap him to hold him for ransom."

Dawson blinked. "Alright, I suppose that makes sense," he said uncertainly. "But how are we to know where they are headquartered?"

Basil rubbed his chin for a second.

Suddenly, Sticky screeched and sat straight up, panting. He looked around confusedly, hazily seeming to remember where he was.

"What happened?" He asked thickly. "Where's that man?"

Dawson patted Sticky on the back. "It's alright, dear boy. It was just a nightmare."

Suddenly, Basil seemed to get an idea. "Hold on there," he said. "You know about the Rakers?" He asked Sticky. Sticky paled.

"We…we don't talks about them on the streets, sir. Dangerous brutes."

"But you know any members?"

Sticky glanced at Basil, then at Dawson, and swallowed. "I…I know a boy me own age who got involved wit 'em, sir, but we hasn't talked in ages. I sees him sometimes, sir, but I always keep me distance."

Basil grinned. He reached into his pocket and fished out a one-pound note. He held it up in front of Sticky's face. Sticky's eyes widened.

"If you go and round up your mates, tell them to spilt up and locate this friend of yours and see where he goes, report back to me, and I'll give you this whole pound," Basil said. "I'll throw in an extra guinea for whoever comes back to me quickest."

Dawson blanched at the thought of this young lad getting involved in any way with this apparently dangerous society, but Sticky was already dashing out the door before he could say a word.

Basil straightened, chuckling at the boy's rushing off. Dawson looked sternly at Basil.

"Basil, how could you send such a small boy to go off and get involved in this?" he scolded.

Basil shrugged. "You and I are well-known enough that we would get caught in an instant if we even tried following a member of the Rakers. Who would suspect a young urchin of being a spy? Besides, this gives him and his little friends an opportunity to earn a bit of money rather than just picking pockets."

Dawson couldn't argue with that.

* * *

><p>Author's Note- Okay, so Edmund is basically my version of Sherlock Holmes' brother Mycroft, except in the mouse world. I'm trying to model Basil and Edmund's relationship off Mycroft and Sherlock's in BBC's modernized version, Sherlock, because I think their relationship is really interesting (and I love that even though they are constantly at odds, Mycroft still genuinely cares and tries to look out for Sherlock-so sweet!) We'll be meeting Edmund in person later, so don't worry.<p>

Also, Sticky has somehow become Wiggins from the original Sherlock Holmes stories too (in case you need a refresher, Wiggins is the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars, a band of street urchins who provide inside information to Mr. Holmes in some of the stories). I didn't start out to write Sticky as a mouse version of Wiggins, it just sort of happened. Perhaps a mouse Baker Street Irregulars will follow...?

If any of you have read my last story, A Scandal in Maldonia, you might be wondering if Relda Cheddarton (mouse Irene Adler) will be making an appearance in this story. She will show up eventually, but I'm not saying where...MWAHAHAHAHA!

Oh, and I think I'm shipping Olivia Flaversham with Sticky now. I don't know how exactly I'll do it, but as I have said it it will be so.

Stay tuned for the next chapter, and thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

A mere hour later, a knock arrived at the door. When the knock was heard, Basil leapt out of his seat. "I'll get it!" He said, clamping his pipe in his teeth and opening the door. Dawson craned his neck around the edge of the armchair and looked to see their visitors.

"Oh, my," he gasped.

Sticky stood proudly in front of a group of five or six ragged-looking children. There was a boy with large spectacles, one of the lenses cracked slightly, and wearing a filthy old bowler hat with the top popped out. A rather plain girl with thick red braids on each side of her thin face, cascading down to her waist, and hugging her ragged shawl around her thin shoulders. A pudgy little mouse with blonde fur so grimy it was almost brown, a tall mouse with too-short trousers and rather large front teeth, and a tiny thing, shorter than all the rest, wrapped up in so many layers of clothes that he (or she, Dawson couldn't tell) looked like a pile of laundry with a floppy hat thrown on top.

Sticky cleared his throat. "This is me mates," he said to Basil and Dawson. "That's Peepers," he said, and the boy with the glasses raised his hand, "Rhoda," the girl with the braids smiled uncertainly, "Tuppence," the pudgy mouse spat on the ground, "Pocket and Cinders."

At the sound of her name, the little pile of laundry looked up, her little grubby face showing that she indeed was a girl, and Dawson was reminded of little Olivia Flaversham. She looked up at Basil. "Are you the Great Mouse Detective?" She asked.

Basil was shaken out of his initial shock at the grubby children standing his doorstep and grinned and the title, straightening his jacket and puffing out his chest. "Why yes," he replied haughtily, "I am."

"I'm Cinders," Cinders said. "Pocket's my brother."

Pocket's mouth tightened in a small line. "How do you do," he muttered.

"I told you I really did meet them," Sticky said to his friends, who had apparently expressed doubt about that sometime prior to their coming here. Sticky cleared his throat. "Me an' me mates think we's got something here, Mr. Basil."

Before Basil had a chance to react, however, the parade of pickpockets pushed their way past him and into his home. They looked around the cozy interior of 221 ½ Baker Street like it was Buckingham Palace, oohing and aahing.

The one called Peepers inspected Basil's collection of various chemicals and reached out to touch a glass of a blue liquid. Basil quickly leapt over and yanked the bottle out of reach. "Don't touch that," he hissed. Something in Basil's peripheral vision caught his attention, and he whipped his head to where Tuppence and Rhoda were ransacking his bookcase. Basil shrieked and nearly dropped the beaker of blue liquid (which was quite fortunate that he caught it…if he hadn't, 221 ½ Baker Street would have been no more). Setting the beaker carefully down on the table, Basil rushed over to stop the children from throwing his books around. He stepped over the papers and pages that were littering the ground and wagged his fingers at the two children. "Now stop that…yipe!" Basil looked over and realized that Cinders was in possession of Basil's precious violin. He nimbly leapt to her and yanked the violin away from her. "Don't touch that, that's special!" He yelled at Cinders, cradling his violin protectively in the crook of his arm.

Dawson didn't know whether to stare in horror or sit back and admire the chaos that was occurring. Basil was dismayed at the children's running rampant around the parlor, rummaging through his things and touching everything. Dawson caught the boy named Tuppence's hand trying to steal one of his cheese crumpets and scolded him, although the boy stared vacantly at him like he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

Mrs. Judson, having heard the racket from the kitchen, burst into the room. "Good Heavens! She cried. "My good pillows!" She rushed over to where Pockets and Rhoda were having a pillow fight, causing feathers to rain down from the ceiling like snow.

"ENOUGH!" Basil shouted. The orphans stopped what they were doing immediately and lined up automatically. They stood at attention in front of Basil, and Dawson was impressed that they stood straighter and more serious than his fellow soldiers in the Queen's 66th Regiment.

Relieved at the silence, Basil cleared his throat. "Thank you. Now then." He crossed his arms. "What have you found out?"

Sticky eagerly opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the boy called Peepers. "We followed a known member of the Rakers to his hideout," he said in a nasal, rather obnoxious voice. "It was simple, really. We just split up and watched him as he went through the neighborhood."

Basil waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes, but about the hideout?"

Sticky again tried to answer, but was interrupted by Peepers once again. "He went into an alley on sixth street and knocked on the left door in the alley three times. Then the door opened and he went inside and shut the door."

Basil grinned. "Sixth street, eh? Jolly good," he said, reaching into his pocket and fishing out the one-pound note. He handed it to Peepers. "Well done, all of you."

Sticky gaped at Basil in betrayal. "But what about me?" He asked indignantly. "If it warn't for me, none of them would've even known who ter follow!"

"And me?" Rhoda asked. "I helped too!"

"And me!" Pocket said. "I followed him to the corner."

"And I hid in a chimney!" Cinders said happily. "I like chimneys."

"I helped too," Tuppence said, but Rhoda glared over at him.

"No you didn't," she accused him, pointing a skinny finger in his chest. "You just picked a man's pocket for a sandwich and ate it the whole time!"

Tuppence growled at her. "Why, if you wasn't a girl I'd-"

"The pound is for all of you to share," Basil cut in smoothly, trying to keep the peace. He reached into his back pocket and got out his wallet. He took out six guineas and passed one to each child. "Here's a guinea for each of you for your troubles."

Their eyes lit up in amazement and they stared up at Basil like he was an angel.

"One whole guinea!" Cinders cried. "Oh, thankye, Mr. Detective sir!"

"Yes, thank you!" The children mumbled, except for Peepers, who looked disappointed that he wasn't Basil's favorite anymore.

"Now shoo, I've work to do," Basil said, herding the children to the door. They filed out of 221 ½ Baker Street. Sticky was the last one out. "If ye ever need some help again, Mr. Basil, come down to the docks and call for the Baker Street Irregulars. We'll be there," he promised, and ran off into the night.

Mrs. Judson clucked her tongue. "Poor dears. I do feel sorry for them, even if they did nearly destroy my best pillows."

Dawson patted Basil approvingly on the shoulder. "That was a very kind thing to do, to give them all the money," he said kindly.

Basil grinned. "They earned it, old chap. They told us where the Raker's headquarters are."

A mere second of silence, then BAM! As if on cue, a loud sound rattled the windowpane, as if something had tried to hit it with something. Mrs. Judson dropped her pillows and screeched in surprise. Basil's head whipped to the side, and he leaped over to the window, peering outside.

"What was that?" Dawson spluttered, joining Basil at the window.

"There!" Basil pointed at the shadowy figure trying to run away from the scene. He raced out the door.

"It must have been one of the children," Dawson thought as he ran quickly after the detective.

The streets were shadowy and misty, the dim streetlamps not helping much in terms of lighting the way. Basil and Dawson only ran about a third of a block before they had to stop, realizing that any effort to catch the departing figure was futile. They were gone.

Retreating back to the house, Basil's sharp eye spotted something lying on the ground near the door. He jogged over to it and stooped down to inspect it further. It was a large stone with a note tied to it. Basil assumed that whoever had run away had attempted to throw the rock through the window and into the living room, but a quick weighing of the stone in his palm told Basil that it was only a piece of volcanic rock that was too light to actually smash through the window. The smooth texture of the rock also told Basil it had washed up on the shore of a beach, presumably near the docks if the sandy texture of soil residue was anything to go by. Tied to the rock was a note (cheap paper imported from Canadian forests, the ink was Malaysian in origin and again, not very expensive). Basil nimbly untied the knot and unfolded the note as Dawson materialized next to him.

"What does it say, Basil?"

Basil read aloud, "We know you know who we are and that we stole the Heart Diamond. We also know that you know we kidnapped Harold Muenster and his children. Since you're such a great detective, we think a bit of an extra challenge might be fun for you. Let's play a game, Mr. Basil. Here's your clue: Mommy's found Daddy and the children, too. They're planning a surprise party just for you. They're trapped on a stage by the musical sea. They'll all be dead if you don't reach them by three."

Basil stopped reading and crumpled the paper in his fists. His face grew quite pale as he was eerily reminded of the sorts of clues Ratigan used to leave, back when Ratigan used to delight in tormenting Basil with his various capers and crimes against mousedom.

Captain Bigmouse was famous for quick, efficient schemes, nothing extravagant or uneccessary. Why on earth would he want to kill the millionaire and his family if he was getting nothing out of it? It seemed awfully unnecessary, and quite out of character.

Dawson gasped. "My God," he breathed. "They're…they're going to kill the whole family!"

Basil's ears perked up, and he was snatched out of his thoughts by a dreadful realization. "Mrs. Muenster!" He cried. He got up, stuffing the note in his pocket, and sprinted off in the direction of the Muenster household. Dawson followed suit, wheezing behind him.

Basil skidded to a halt in front of the door to the Muenster household. He pounded frantically on the door. "Mrs. Muenster!" He called. He pounded on the door again, and this time, the door creaked open. Basil opened the door and walked in. "Mrs. Muenster?" he called again. No response. Basil took a cautious step forward, stepping on something that crunched audibly underneath his foot. Basil reached into his pocket and pulled out a match, which he struck against the wall. It crackled to life, giving him light to see the broken glass all over the carpet. He wandered down the hallway to the sitting room.

The sitting room was lit, but had obviously been ransacked. A table had been toppled over, the chairs sliced open with some sort of cleaver, it looked like, a window smashed wide open and the drapes blowing gently in the breeze. On the floor lying in a pool of blood was Angelique the Maid, her blonde fur sticky with blood from a cut on her forehead.

"Good Heavens!" Dawson exclaimed from the doorway, pushing past Basil, who was kneeling at Angelique the Maid's side. "Out of my way, I'm a doctor," he said sternly, inspecting the cut on her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered open, and her glassy eyes stared up at Basil and Dawson's concerned faces.

"Lady…taken…" Angelique the Maid tried to say, but Dawson shushed her.

"Not another word," he said. "You'll be alright." Dawson looked up at Basil. "Basil, could you help me get the poor woman off the floor?"

Basil grunted and stooped down to help gather up Angelique the Maid and pick her up. They set her on the slashed open sofa.

"Lady…kidnapped…" she moaned.

"Oh dear," Dawson said. "We really should bring the police into this now that the whole family's been threatened to be killed. Don't you agree, Basil? Basil?"

Basil wasn't paying any attention, but had pulled out his magnifying glass and was shuffling across the floor, stopping occasionally to sniff or study a spot. He paused at the doorway. "Aha!" He cried triumphantly, "Footprints!" He crouched down on the floor, staring at the muddy bootprints on the floor. Two types…one bigger set, one smaller set. Judging from the depth of the imprints and shape of the soles, Basil could tell that one mouse was about five inches and the other only four and three quarters of an inch, the taller one also more heavyset, both wearing boots unfashionable in style but hardy and practical in design. Whoever had broken into the house had planned ahead, down to the most efficient kidnapping boot to wear.

But had they planned enough? Basil reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small drawstring bag. Reaching into the pouch, Basil pulled out a small handful of chalky white powder (imported from Peru) and sprinkled it over the doorknob. Yes! Yes! While the pattern of fingerprints suggested that the kidnappers had indeed been wearing gloves, one of the gloves had a hole torn on the thumb, and a perfect thumbprint sat on the doorway. Excellent!

"Basil?" Dawson asked, interrupting the inner symphony's triumphant rendition of Basil's theme song. "Basil, what about the girl?"

Oh yes. He'd forgotten about her. "Yes, yes, of course," Basil said, scurrying over to Angelique the Maid. He sat down on the floor in front of the sofa, reaching into Dawson's jacket pocket and pulling out the pad and a pencil ("Excuse me, Dawson," he muttered quickly) and held them at the ready. "Miss…Marguerite or Bernadette or whatever your name is, please describe your attack."

"Basil!" Dawson hissed. That was no way to treat a person who had gone through such an ordeal. And who had such a nasty cut on her head.

Basil ignored him and stared up expectantly at Angelique the Maid, who blinked clumsily. "Mrs…Muenster and I…we in the parlor, suddenly the window breaks and…two men come in, grab Mrs. Muenster. I try to scream, but they take a knife and cut me across the head." Angelique gestured weakly to the cut on her forehead. "I fall, and they drag Mrs. Muenster out the door."

"What did these two men look like?"

"Basil!" Dawson protested.

"One dark fur, other light. Both short, though light fur one was shorter, I think…" Angelique swallowed.

"Yes, yes…" Basil said. He _knew_ that already…couldn't somebody just once give him some useful information? "But what set them apart? Did they have anything distinguishable?"

Angelique thought hazily back to what had happened. Dawson reached over and snatched the paper out of Basil's hands.

"Basil," Dawson scolded him, "This woman has just been attacked and here you go interrogating her. What we need is the police to get involved. There's threats to kill now, there's no other option but to go to the police…"

"Wait…" Angelique murmured suddenly, surprising both Basil and Dawson, "There was something…the light-furred mouse was young. Looked to be a young boy. Had a scar on his right eye."

"Thank you!" Basil said, re-snatching the paper pad from Dawson and scribbling furiously on the paper. Finally, something he could work with!

Suddenly, the door in the hall opened, and loud, thundering footsteps thudded towards the parlor. A team of constables wielding bats and whistles, as well as a couple of men in long coats who had to have been police detectives, burst into the parlor.

"Good Heavens!" Dawson yelped, jumping up from his seat. Basil leaped gracefully to his feet and shouted at the police,

"DO. NOT. TOUCH. ANYTHING!"

The constables stared at the detective in silence, not knowing what to make of the situation. Finally, a mouse with graying fur and a long black coat pushed forwards, looking up at Basil scornfully.

"The Great Mouse Detective, I suppose."

Basil puffed out his chest, acknowledging the title. "You must be Inspector Lestrade," he said.

Inspector Lestrade nodded. "Pleasure to meet you at last. Though when we got the call about a break-in at the Muenster home, you were the last person I expected to see here."

"Mrs. Muenster was a client of mine," Basil explained. "I was investigating the disappearance of her family when I got a brick thrown at my home with a note attached to it, saying that the kidnappers of Mr. Muenster and the children were going after Mrs. Muenster next."

Inspector Lestrade's blue eyes widened slightly. "Mr. Muenster and the children have been missing? For how long?"

"Two days ago for the children. Presumably four for Mr. Muenster."

Inspector Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "Why weren't we informed?"

Basil shrugged nonchalantly. "I hadn't gotten a lead yet. If I didn't know what was going on, the police certainly hadn't a chance of getting anywhere with the case either." Basil didn't mean it as an insult, he was just pointing it out. Inspector Lestrade, however, became indignant.

"Now see here," he began, but Basil interrupted.

"Now. Whoever threw that brick and left the taunt tied to it disappeared rather quickly, but the departing figure was too tall to be one of the kidnappers here. The kidnappers here, of course, being around five inches and four and a half inches in height, respectively. The brick-thrower was around five and a half inches, of around normal height, ensuring that this was an organized plot to kidnap Mrs. Muenster and not some sort of coincidence. If I am correct in my calculations, the kidnappers were just arriving here when the brick-thrower attacked my home, judging by the age of the blood stains."

"Blood stains?" One constable said, looking queasy. Basil ignored him, continuing on his tangent.

"The kidnappers broke in through the parlor window, slashed a few things to show that they had weapons, and the shorter one, described to be a young boy, slashed Miss Marguerite's head."

"Angelique," Dawson corrected.

"Whatever. Mrs. Muenster was a saucy woman and didn't give up without a fight, however. She pushed over a table," Basil said, stepping over the overturned piece of furniture, "to try and slow the kidnappers down, but they were too quick and tackled her, stuffing her in a bag and hauling her over their shoulders to transport her down the hall. One of the young men had a hole in his glove, as evidenced by the perfect thumbprint left on the doorknob, as he opened the door and took the still-struggling Mrs. Muenster down the hall. They left out the front door, breaking a window as they went."

"How did they break the window?" Dawson asked.

"Broke it on purpose to make it seem like they came in from the front," basil said, as if that was obvious. "Punched a hole in the window, making the glass fall into the house, suggesting that the window was broken from the outside."

"Why would they want to do that?" Dawson asked.

"To make it seem like an ordinary break in," Basil said, as if that were obvious. "Which it wasn't, of course. It was an elaborate scheme to take Mrs. Muenster and capture the whole family."

Inspector Lestrade recovered from staring in awe at Basil and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why would they want to capture the whole family?" He inquired slowly.

Basil didn't have an answer for that. Considering what he knew about the Rakers and Captain Bigmouse, it didn't make any sense. Captain Bigmouse, being known for efficiency, would have dropped the father and children off at their house after getting what they initially wanted, the Heart Diamond. Why they wanted to waste time and energy killing a family after already having what they were after didn't make any sense.

"I-I don't know," Basil answered honestly.

Inspector Lestrade seemed to consider that for a second. "We'll need to see that note," he told Basil.

"I have it here," Basil replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the crumpled note. Inspector Lestrade snatched it and opened it up, quickly reading through it. He inhaled sharply and muttered under his breath, "My God." He looked up at Basil and Dawson. "Who wrote this?"

"An underground society of criminals that call themselves 'the Rakers.'" Basil said.

Inspector Lestrade blinked. "All right then," he said. He turned to his constables. "Don't touch anything in the house but report back to the station. I want the best detectives on this case."

Basil took that as a mortal insult. Here was the best detective in all of mousedom and this Inspector Lestrade fellow ignores him. "Now see here," Basil began, but Lestrade cut him off.

"Thank you, Mr. Basil, Dr. Dawson," Lestrade gave Dr. Dawson an acknowledging nod. "But that is all that is required from you at the moment. We will be visiting you if we need anything else."

"And the woman?" Dawson said, looking worriedly at his patient.

"We'll take care of everything. Thank you and goodnight," Inspectro Lestrade waved his hand at them, as if dismissing them.

Basil shot a glare at Inspector Lestrade before stalking off. Dawson followed.

* * *

><p>"I don't like that Inspector Lestrade," Basil muttered darkly as they walked back to Baker Street through the misty streets of London.<p>

"I believe the feeling is mutual, old chap," Dawson replied, amused.

Basil's face changed from angry to thoughtful. "One thing I don't understand, Dawson."

"What's that, Basil?"

"Captain Bigmouse is famous for only doing certain crimes while it's still useful to him. Why would he order his thugs to kidnap and threaten to kill an innocent family when he already has what he's looking for? And for what, to…to taunt me? It doesn't make any sense."

Dawson was quiet for a moment, considering it.

They reached 221 ½ Baker street and turned, walking into the cozy little house.

Basil and Dawson closed the door behind them, cutting off the supply of cold, misty air. Basil started to slide his coat off his arms, and he turned to see a familiar person sitting calmly in a chair by the fire. Basil felt his heart threaten to leap into his throat.

"Relda?" He gasped.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey, so I felt really cruddy about posting such a short chapter. I added a little more to this chapter. I should get another chapter up by the 20th.

Enjoy!

Narwhals Forever

* * *

><p>Relda Cheddarton smiled serenely at the two men from her seat in Basil's fluffy armchair, the firelight making her deep brown eyes glimmer, although the effect was much more charming than frightening. She crossed her legs casually under her long green skirt, making the petticoats ruffle. "Hello, Basil," she said brightly.<p>

Basil sputtered, fighting the sudden, incredibly odd and incredibly strong urge to run right back through the door and as far away from here as possible. Finally, he regained his composure and asked rather coldly what she was doing here.

"I was in the neighborhood," Relda explained vaguely, getting up from her seat and looking at the various knickknacks sitting above the fireplace, lazily tracing a finger across the edge of the mantel.

"Singing?" inquired the good doctor curiously.

Relda turned her head away from the mantel, smiling slyly and giving them a subtle, almost unperceivable wink. "Not quite." Reaching into her dress and pulling out a newspaper clipping (Dawson blushed; "That settles it. She must have a pocket in her corset or something," Basil thought). She slunk back to her seat on the red armchair and unfolded the paper. She lifted it up for them to see. It read,

**Millionaire Kidnapped?**

**Hotel Records Show Harold Colby Muenster May Have Checked Out Early…Maybe Unwillingly.**

"Nothing's official, but the tabloids back in America have had the time of their lives printing out these headlines saying that this British man has been kidnapped. Naturally, given your reputation for being involved in nearly every scandal that hits the world in some way, shape or form, I assumed you'd be in on this somehow. So I skidaddled from New York to London to pay a visit. But I'm technically not supposed to be here, so shh." She held a finger to her lips good-naturedly.

Basil narrowed his eyes and took the paper from her hands. He inspected it. "Why hasn't any of this information come to London? Or the American authorities, at least?"

Relda waved her hand dismissively. "The information is in tabloids. Nobody takes it seriously, but it makes good gossip. I thought you'd know for sure, though." She suddenly became very excited, smiling almost manically at him. "Does this mean it's true? Has there really been a kidnapping?"

Basil sighed. "Unfortunately, it is. And the whole family's gone missing, courtesy of a band o criminals that call themselves the Rakers. This matter has only just come to the attention of Scotland Yard."

Relda looked thrilled. "Ooh! A secret criminal society? Like the Mafia, the Black Hand! Oh, how exciting!" She was jumping up and down with excitement. "I want in."

Basil stared at her for a moment, shocked, then raised a hand to tell her to calm down. "No, no, no," he told her firmly, "you are not taking part in this."

Relda's face fell. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that! You won't be involving yourself in this case!" Basil stamped his foot, signaling finality.

But Relda didn't back down. "It's because I'm a woman, isn't it?" she cried indignantly. "How typical!"

Basil's eyes widened. "No, no, I never meant-" he began, but Relda was alredy turned away from him, fuming. He saw her wipe some angry, hot tears out of her eyes. This was not the first time Basil had almost made a woman cry, as was his blunt and sometimes rather brutally honest nature, but this was one of the first times he actually was put off by it.

Basil sent a glance toward Dawson that seemed to say, "Help me, please!"

Dawson returned it with a look that clearly said, "You're on your own."

Sighing exasperatedly, poor Basil turned back to Relda, out of options. "I'm s-sorry," he swallowed. "You…you may accompany us if you wish. But I highly discourage any-oof!"

Relda had wrapped him into a crushing hug. He looked down at her as she cut off circulation of air in his lungs.

She blinked the fake tears out of her eyes, smiling mischievously. "Thank you, dear," she murmured quietly.

Basil realized he'd been played for a fool and began to retort, but Relda whirled away from him, practically bouncing with excitement.

"Let's see, now," she said, thinking. "Tell me everything you know about the case."

And so Basil explained it all to Relda. He explained everything, from the Rakers to the brick to Lestrade. All the while, Relda listened intently to him, staring up at him with her big brown eyes, which, while making Basil's rather dramatic, in-the-spotlight personality happy, flustered him a little.

What are you embarrassed for? Basil mentally screamed at himself. Focus on explaining. FOCUS!

He realized that his voice had trailed off for a few moments, causing Dawson and Relda to look puzzled at him.

Basil cleared his throat. If he hadn't been blushing before, he certainly was now. "Pardon me. As I was saying, I, ah…"

"The maid," Relda supplied helpfully, "you were talking about the maid. In the house?"

"Ah, ah yes. Thank you. Anyway, as I was saying, an older man and a younger boy, broke into the house. Grabbed Mrs. Muenster and dragged her out the door, slashed Miss Marguerite…"

"Angelique," Relda and Dawson chimed in.

"Whatever," Basil said, irritated. "They broke the window in the front to make it look like they came in from the inside."

Relda nodded. Basil could practically see the gears turning in her head. Finally, she asked, "So the little children who told you...the Rakers are on sixth street?"

Basil shook his head. "The note said the family is on a stage by the sea. The family is the most important thing right now."

Relda thought for a second. "A stage by the sea?"

Basil began pacing the floor. Dawson moved helpfully out of the way.

"A stage by the sea. A stage by the sea. There are no theaters by the docks…"

Relda cleared her throat. "Actually, you're wrong about that."

Basil turned sharply. "What do you mean?"

Unlike most women who came through the parlor door, Miss Relda Cheddarton was not fazed by Basil's sudden shouting. She blinked calmly. "There is an old singing school down in that neighborhood, one I visited often when I traveled as a child. It closed down years ago, due to the bad neighborhood and Madame Anita's habit of teaching opera while drunk on cheap whiskey. But I believe the building is still there."

Both Basil's and Dawson's eyes widened. "What is it called?" Dawson asked.

"Madame Anita's School Of Voice. I believe the address is 163-"

Relda didn't get a chance to finish. Basil, already wearing his detective's coat, grabbed her arm. "Yes, yes, tell us on the way!" He pulled her hastily out of the room and into the night.

Dawson, still struggling to get his arm all the way through the sleeve of his coat, protested. "Basil! Miss Cheddarton's cloak!" Sighing, Dawson grabbed the sleek cloak of an unknown black material and hurried, once again, into the London night.

* * *

><p>Out on the street, Basil whistled through his teeth.<p>

Silence gripped them as much as the London fog that hung heavy in the sleeping city streets.

"Oh, thank you," Relda said, accepting her cloak from Dawson and wrapping it around her shoulders. She looked at Basil. "Basil, what are we-"

Basil silenced her with a wave of his hand, staring out into the night, waiting.

After only a few moments, a giant bloodhound came barreling out of the doggy door in the human 221 Baker Street door. It barreled towards the three mice on the street corner, drooling happily, his ears flapping in the breeze.

Basil and Dawson didn't move as the dog dew closer, but Relda screamed and covered her head. She ducked down instinctively, waiting for a giant dog paw to smush her into a well-dressed pancake.

Instead, the dog stopped mere centimeters from her huddled form. A steady streem of dog drool dripped onto her hands and cloak. She straightened and looked into the face of the giant, happy dog.

"Blecch," she murmured in disgust, wiping the drool off her hands and onto her skirt. The gracious Dr. Dawson handed her a handkerchief.

"TOby, Relda, Relda, Toby," Basil impatiently introduced them. He was too excited at this new lead to be bothered with trifles like common courtesy.

"Pleasure to meet your acquaintance," Relda said, a hint of sarcasm just barely recognizable under her polite tone. Another flow of happy dog saliva cascaded onto her head.

She wiped it off the best she could, handing the sopping handkerchief back to Dr. Dawson, who took it gingerly in between thumb and forefinger and reluctantly tucked it back into his sleeve (it was his only good handkerchief!).

"Come on, come on!" Basil said. Toby bent down and created a miniature staircase wth his ears for the mice to climb up on.

The mice boarded the dog.

"Where did you say that singing school was again?" Basil asked.

"Uh, 163 Water Street," Relda said.

"Excellent. Toby! Go!" Basil cried.

The dog and mice sped off into the bleak London night.


	6. Chapter 6

Basil, Dawson, and Relda galloped through the London fog on Toby's back, towards the docks.

Relda felt she might fall off. She twisted some of the dog's fur into little handles that she gripped so hard the skin under her fur turned white.

Through the misty air, she could see the familiar sign on the front of the school, though in a state of disrepair, she could recognize it as a place of suffering for many girls and boys her age, the unlucky subjects of Madame Anita's drunken rage.

"There," she said to Basil, pointing. "It's there!"

"Whoa, Toby!" basil called. Obediently, Toby halted, plopping on his bottom with the sidewalk.

With a shriek, the three mice fell to the ground.

"Oof!" They each cried in unison.

They looked up at the sign on the delapidated school of singing. A painting of Madame Anita, a rather husky older woman dripping in costume jewelry, sat below the faded words that read, "Madame Anita's School of Voice."

Basil murmured the words softly under his breath as he read them.

"Oh my," Dawson pointed out, "She isn't very friendly-looking."

"She wasn't." Relda muttered darkly. Basil quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Suddenly, a voice in the darkness rang out, "Help us, please!"

The children! Basil was the first one to react, sprinting towards the boarded-up door and leaping like an acrobat through a hole in two of the planks. Relda followed closely, stopping only to grunt and pull at her dress, freeing it from a nail (leaving a rather large tear on the hem of her skirt. Shame, Dawson thought, it looked expensive). Dawson took the time to carefully wedge himself in and through the boards in the door.

Down the dark, high-arched hallways they went, slamming their feet hurriedly across the creaking floorboards.

"Help, please!" the voices screamed. Up ahead, as Dawson jogged, he could see vague shapes at the end of the hall, the size and shape of two small children.

"Don't worry, children, we're coming!" Basil called to the children as they neared the light at the end of the hallway.

They entered the room where the children were, a larger room that must have been used for choral concerts while the school was still in use. The children stood in the middle of the room, their faces hung towards the floor.

Dawson gasped a little. Urgently, he whispered to Basil, "I thought the little girl had blonde hair, not red."

Basil had noticed. He grabbed Relda's arm, preventing her from going over to the children. "Something's not right," Basil told her.

The "children" looked up at them. The "little boy" had stubble and held a wet cigar in his large front teeth. The "little girl" had makeup caked on to cover up her wrinkles and sags. Both had to be at least forty years old.

Relda shrieked in surprise as the child imposters laughed. "Hiya, toots!" The little boy said.

Suddenly, the empty choral hall came alive around them, thugs popping out from behind the curtains and ledges and crooks in the wall, surrounding them, laughing and shouting.

An arm reached out and grabbed Basil from behind, pulling him close into a headlock. Basil kicked and struggled, the foul smell of stale alcohol filling his nose. Relda was grabbed by a large man, though ironically the thug was enough of a gentleman to hold her at arm's length, maintaining a somewhat proper distance between the two. Dawson was not so lucky, picked up off the ground and held, dangling, from the large mouse's grip.

"Let us go!" Relda shouted, trying to free herself from the thug's grip and almost succeeding until the thug decided to hell with propriety and pulled her close, pulling a dagger to her throat and holding it there, menacingly.

Basil let out a roar of rage and kicked the mouse that was holding him. The mouse let go of him, but before Basil could get away another mouse tackled Basil, sending them both crashing to the ground.

"Basil!" Dawson cried, still struggling with his own captor. He tried a move he had been taught in the army, where one kicked back, then up, and head-butted the man from in front. However, the mouse saw it coming and shoved the good doctor to the ground before Dawson could do anything.

Pulled up to his feet by his captors, Basil shouted indignantly, "Let us go, you filthy, slimy scum of the Thames! I demand to see Captain Bigmouse!"

The thugs quieted at the sound of Captain Bigmouse's name.

"There ain't no Cap'n Bigmouse no more," one of the mooks, a light-haired short one with a scar on his eye (the kidnapper, thought Basil) said.

"What do you mean, he isn't anymore?" Basil snapped. "I have had enough of this tomfoolery. Where is Bigmouse?"

"He ain't here," the mouse said again, patiently.

"Than who is your leader?" Asked Basil, impatiently.

An ominous, yet horrifyingly familiar voice from the back of the crowd answered. The crowd of thugs parted like the Red Seas to allow a large mouse-nay, a rat-to approach them, his emerald-encrusted cane clicking elegantly on the dirty floor. His cape swirled around his hunched figure as he grinned down at his captives.

"Why, Basil, old boy, how wonderful to see you again," Ratigan said pleasantly.

Basil nearly fainted.

* * *

><p>Author's note- And that's all folks!<p>

No, I kid. However, I probably won't be able to get any updates until after Christmas, so stay tuned!

(I couldn't resist bringing Ratigan back. I needed to so bad)

Merry Chrismakwanzaakah, or whatever it is you celebrate!

Toodles (God, I love that phrase)

Narwhals Forever


	7. Chapter 7

"But…but how?" Basil breathed.

"Oh, Basil, a true magician never reveals his secrets," Ratigan explained vaguely with a wave of his hand.

"He landed on the canopy of a shopkeeper's stall and he only bounced instead of splatting against the pavement," a scrawny mouse in the thug crowd piped up.

Ratigan whirled on the mouse, reaching delicately into his cape and pulling a little golden bell out, holding it threateningly in front of the mouse.

The mouse cowered. "Y'know…pr-probably," he amended.

Ratigan must have decided it would be a waste of time and energy to execute a thug when he had an archenemy and his associates to intimidate, because he quickly stowed the bell back in his cape and turned back to his captives. The sweating mouse thug sighed in relief.

"Anyway," Ratigan said amiably, "It's such a pleasure to see you and your quaint little colleague again. Yes, I do remember you, dear little doctor." Ratigan reached out and gently chucked Dawson under the chin, chuckling to himself at the discomfort this caused the good doctor. Ratigan turned to Basil. "Oh, how I've missed you so," he grinned, baring a million sharp, glistening yellow teeth, causing more intimidation than pleasant security in his captives. "Having to be cooped up here with these idiots was so dreadfully boring. M-hmm. I did miss tormenting you, Basil, what with my crazy schemes and antics. You're predictable, but always never disappoint."

Though I must say, I'm a bit surprised at your swiftness in coming here. I thought for sure I was going to have to make good on my word and kill the lovely little family I have downstairs."Ratigan shrugged. "Oh well."

Basil's initial shock was slowly evaporating as he looked into that smug, vile…smugly vile face of his worst foe. It was instead replaced with anger. Dang it, he had…he had fought this monster, he had almost died because of it too, he had triumphed and now…now he realized that nothing he had done had gotten him any closer to ridding mousedom of the cancer that was Padriac Ratigan. All that he had been through, and here was the vile scum he had scoured from the earth, sitting and grinning at him, having been saved by, by what? By something as simple and uninteresting as the canopy of a market stall? If he had to be subjected to dealing with this vile sewer rat again, let it be at the hands of a demon or a depraved physician or something, not a…a shopkeeper's stall! By God, why did his worst enemy have to also be the luckiest bastard in the world?

"I captured them, Professor Ratigan! I really did!" The younger mouse with the scar said eagerly.

This outburst caused some backlash in the rest of the crowd. Basil, Dawson, and Relda felt their captors loosen their grips as they started shouting at the youngster.

"You lying son of a toot!"

"I captured em!"

"No, I did!"

"I did!"

"You're all lying!"

"Am not!"

"I captured 'em, Professa!"

A few of the mice started to fight, pushing each other and yelling, a furious ocean of flying fists and legs. Relda felt the grip on her slacken and began to try and leave, but was disappointed when her captor grabbed her before she could get far and put her in a near-headlock.

Over the rising tide of angry appendages, a calm hand raised above them all, holding a tiny golden bell between its thumb and forefinger, poised to ring it. The crowd froze, staring in horror at the bell, before quickly untangling themselves and standing at attention.

"That's better, isn't it?" Ratigan said. He stowed away the bell once more. "Besides, you're all liars. I brought them here." He grinned down at his helpless victims, who were either trying to mentally set his head on fire (Basil), gaping at him in shock and dismay (Dawson) or regarding him with a questioning air, like she didn't know what to make of him (Relda).

"You…you are the famed Professor Ratigan, is that right?" Relda spoke from her position in a near-headlock with her respective captor.

Ratigan casually turned on Relda, seeming to just have noticed her. "Yes, my dear, you'd be correct in that assumption," he said saccharinely. "And…who would you be?"

"A friend of mine and Basil's," Dawson piped up.

Ratigan's eyes widened. "A friend…?" he echoed under his breath, sending a barely perceptible glance from Relda to Basil. His demeanor again changed, now much more malicious than his previous amiable façade. He sent Relda a chilling smile and said sweetly, "How nice to meet you at last. If you're anything like my dear Doctor and detective, I'm sure we'll get along swimmingly."

Basil had stewed in silent fury long enough. He barked out, "Where is Captain Bigmouse?"

Ratigan laughed. "Oh, dear Basil, you really thought there was a captain Bigmouse, didn't you?"

Basil narrowed his eyes.

"I've forged a birth certificate in his name, committed crimes in his name, bribed witnesses to blame him for robberies, gotten him credentials and a reputation, all without having an actual captain Bigmouse," Ratigan said. "Clever, isn't it? With people blaming Bigmouse and hunting for a captain that doesn't exist, I could easily slip under the police's noses and commit crimes without ever letting on that I am behind it all."

Basil's eyes widened.

"All this time, there's been no…"

"Nope!" Ratigan cackled gleefully. "Oh, poor little detective, fooled again!"

Basil stiffened as the rest of the mooks around him began laughing. Unfortunate flashbacks of the last time he'd faced Ratigan flooded his memory.

Relda and Dawson exchanged glances.

Ratigan was laughing so hard he actually leaned on Basil and his captor's shoulder for support. "And now," he gasped, his laughter dying down, "I do enjoy speaking with you all, but I'd love for you all to meet our guests."

* * *

><p>Author's Note- Oh, geez, I hope I did this right. I love the character of Ratigan, but I worry that I didn't write him very well. Please review so I have feedback for the next chapter. Thank you!<p>

As Always,

Narwhals Forever


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note- First off, I would like to thank my lovely reviewers! I am so grateful for all of your input!

Anywho, enjoy this next chapter!

* * *

><p>They were led rather roughly down the stairs to a musty-smelling, dirty old basement. Relda bristled at the cold, stale air that greeted them as they descended down the stairs.<p>

Dawson let out a yelp as they entered the cellar under the stage, where the dirty mirrors and cobwebbed, flickering lights reflected on a poor family, huddled in the corner of what appeared to be a large birdcage.

Two small children, fitting Sticky's description exactly, were tired and haggard-looking, clinging to their father through their once-pretty clothes that were now soiled and dirty. Their father, clearly a privledged man from the proud way he held himself, had his head lifted high despite the tattered state his clothes were in and the bruises that were visible through his fur. His wife, in slightly better condition but not by much, was hugging her son and smoothing his hair absentmindedly, her eyes wild and frightened.

"You brutes!" Dawson cried indignantly as he, Basil, and Relda were shoved (oof!) into the cage. The family shrank away from them. Dawson leapt up to his little feet and yelled through the bars of the cage, pointing accusingly at the thugs. "Treating an innocent family like this...and the poor children!"

"Mm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm," Ratigan chuckled to himself, being swept in on the shoulders of a couple of his stronger minions, "Dear, dear, Dr. Dawson, if you'd been any slower in your finding me, this charming little family would be in a far worse condition than they are now." The minions lowered him to the ground, and Ratigan gracefully twirled to the ground, his cape swirling around his ample frame as he came face to face with the sputtering doctor.

Relda looked at the horrified family and shuddered. Unpleasant flashbacks to seeing starving, poor immigrants in the streets of New York City and beaten, helpless pupils at this very school flickered in front of her eyes. She turned to Ratigan, her normally cool temper rising to the surface.

"You monster!" She screeched. "You filthy, slimy..."

Basil's eyes widened and he leapt over to her, clamping a hand over her mouth before she could say the words.

"...SHOOWAAR REHTSH!" She yelled, muffled by Basil's hand. She glared up at Basil. "Bazhir, lesh GO ovmee!"

Basil kept his firm hold on her, knowing that if he let her loose, she'd insult Ratigan with what would be her last words... sewer rat. While she did annoy and even bewilder him at times, he was rather fond of Relda (in a platonic sense, he assured himself) and didn't actually want her to die tonight.

Ratigan chuckled again, albeit more darkly, as his gaze flicked over to them. His smile turned into a snarl and a dangerous fire blazed in his eyes. "You should be glad Basil was here to halt that particular comment," he said sweetly, with a tone like poisoned honey. "You'd hate to know what happened to the last mouse that called me that name."

The thugs surrounding him immediately took off their hats and stared sadly at the ground in respectful silence. Poor, poor Sheldon the Drunkard.

"And I assure you, my sweet," Ratigan continued, unperturbed at any memories of cold-blooded murder, "that I am a LARGE MOUSE."

Relda, who had managed to pry Basil's fingers from her lips just enough to speak, cast a skeptical look at Ratigan. "A large mouse?"

"I'm big-boned, is all," Ratigan said with a flap of his hand.

Relda opened her mouth to reply, but was silenced by a withering glare from Basil of Baker Street. Basil whipped his head to Ratigan and made his way to the edge of the cage, where he was face to face with Ratigan. A sly smile twisted up the corners of Ratigan's mouth.

"What exactly is it that you plan to do?" Basil asked coldly.

Ratigan, clearly happier to be speaking to his archnemesis than to that annoying, impudent girl or that simpering, soft-hearted doctor, seemed absolutely flattered by the question. "Well," he drawled, "I originally was just after the Heart Diamond. Priceless, you know. The perfect addition to my little collection..."

"Of stolen valuables," Basil muttered under his breath.

Ratigan didn't hear him. "...And I was in desperate need of something to do. So boring, you know, being in hiding all the time. The only way to pass the time is to do evil acts. It's just so nostalgic. And gratifying.

Anyway, I decided to blackmail that darling mr. Muenster over there. Ah, blackmail," Ratigan sighed. "So much more fun than just killing people. It's so much fun to watch them squirm."

The familiar words caused Basil to send a quick glance at Relda, who looked at the ground.

"But that silly boy," Ratigan said in mock sternness to Mr. Muenster. "Despite all my threats to him and his family, despite all the men I sent to watch him and his house, he showed up in New York City, our meeting place, without the diamond. Naughty boy," he wagged a finger at Mr. Muenster, who inhaled sharply. "He learned what happens when I don't get what I want."

Basil could tell he was referring to the bruises that covered Mr. Muenster. He glared at Ratigan.

"And so, I sent a few letters to his house, telling them to hand over the diamond. Now, when those two precious things came bearing the diamond, well, they were simply so adorable I couldn't resist keeping them." Ratigan laughed a little bit. "But when I learned that you, dear Basil, was on the case, I was thrilled. The break from the humdrum was getting better and better! I was simply dying for a visit from 'the great mouse detective' himself. So I sent that charming little note to your charming little home, and reunited Mrs. Muenster with her charming little family. And here we are at the end of the game, one big happy reunion!" Ratigan gestured grandly at the cellar full of thugs and prisoners. "Isn't this fun?"

"You sent that note to taunt me into coming. You wanted me to play this...this game," Basil breathed.

"YES!" Ratigan clapped his hands and cackled gleefully.

"B-but Professor Ratigan," Dawson said meekly, "now that you have captured us, and got your diamond, what are you going to do with us?"

Ratigan shrugged. "I have a few methods in mind for killing all of you and then taking over London whilst you are all out of my way, none of which I have decided on yet." He grinned. "Perhaps after a glass of Syrah and some harp practice I'll be able to decide." He winked at Basil.

"And that is all?" Basil asked. "Kill the family too, after they have done nothing wrong? After they have given you what you want?" A silent anger flooded his words and he glared up at the 'large mouse.'

"The more the merrier," Ratigan said. "My pretty kitty Felicia has been dying for a special meal, one that doesn't taste like stale alcohol and cigar smoke. Besides, I could use the company. You've no idea how lonely it gets, being the only genius in a crowd of imbeciles."

The thugs around him giggled, having no idea they were the idiots being talked about. It did, however, emphasize his point rather nicely.

"And so I leave you. Parting is such sweet, sweet sorrow." Ratigan practically skipped through the crowd of the thugs, giddy with excitement at the impending execution of his archenemy and his friends.

Relda glided up to the bars, next to Basil, glaring daggers at the dancing, prancing villain. "I must say I'm impressed, Professor Ratigan," she called out to him, her words dripping in venom. "After all I've read about you in the papers, after all the word of mouth saying what a low-down, arrogant, slimy, selfish, repellant _sewer rat_ you are, I now see they hardly do you justice!"

Ratigan spun smartly on his heel, straying exactly 180 degrees from his original route and back to the cage. He lowered himself so that he was face-to-face with teh much shorter Relda, who was showing some regret for her outburst but was holding her ground.

When Ratigan spoke, it was eerily calm and collected, making Relda's skin crawl. "I am so, so glad, so wonderfully glad, that Basil decided to bring a little dirty puzzle like you along to grace me with your marvelous existence. And because I approve of you so profoundly, I think I might even do you the honor of allowing you to be torn into little pieces first. In fact, I think I shall."

He gave a signal to a few of the mooks, who quickly opened the door and dragged Relda, kicking and screeching, out of the cage.

Basil and Dawson protested. Dawson was picked up off the ground and thrown to the side, nearly colliding with the Muenster family, who was huddling together in fear.

"Leave me alone, get away from them!" Relda shouted, resisting furiously against the large hands that were grabbing her.

"Take your hands off her!" Basil shouted before being roughly shoved to the ground. Ratigan towered over him, bending down to Basil and lightly chucking him under the chin.

"I'm doing you a favor, really, dear Basil," Ratigan said lightly, brushing a few strands of fur over Basil's forehead. His touch made Basil feel nauseous, and he twisted away from him.

"Really, a genius like you, however annoying and disgustingly goody-two-shoes, deserves better than a slattern like her." Ratigan grinned and left the cage, the door tinkling shut behind him.

"Goodnight, sleep tight!" Ratigan called carelessly behind him as he followed the crowd of thugs out of the cellar. "You're all going to die tomorrow!"

* * *

><p>Author's Note- Yes, it's me again.<p>

Just a few points to note. "Syrah" is a type of red wine that is supposed to go quite well with meat (Ratigan, despite what he says, is a rat, and rats are meat-eaters, after all).

A "dirty puzzle" is victorian slang for "whore." It's a bit crude, but seeing as I highly suspect Ratigan originated from the sewers or some other unsavory environment, he would probably let a crass insult slip when he got really angry.

Also, not sure if it was too obvious in the writing or not, but from Basil and Ratigan's interactions in the movie, I highly suspect Ratigan has a villainous crush on Basil (may be reciprocated somewhat or not, I write it as being unrequited). That is partially the reason Ratigan truly hates Relda-he sees her as a threat, the insult was only icing on the cake. Tried to hint it subtly, may or may not have succeeded. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter and stay tuned for the next chapter!

Ta-ta!

Narwhals Forever


	9. Chapter 9

Dawson rushed over to help Basil off the dirty cage floor. "Basil," Dawson said worriedly, "Are you alright?"

"'M fine," Basil muttered under his breath, waving Dawson off. He picked himself up and glared through the bars at the door through which Ratigan had just disappeared.

His mind was working a mile a minute. They needed to get out of here.

Relda was in mortal danger.

"Perhaps if we could pick the lock," Dawson suggested feebly, eying the padlock on the door.

Basil muttered under his breath. "Of course not, Doctor," he said, exasperated. "Look!"

Dawson squinted in the dim light. Sure enough, Ratigan had set a trap. It was hard to see when there were so many thugs in the room before, but through the crack in the door was a barely visible gun barrel pointing straight at them through the bars in the cage. Connecting to the gun's trigger was a barely-visible thread that was strung up through the top bars of the cage and down to the lock.

Basil rolled his eyes. "Ratigan rigged it," he explained, "so that only the actual key can open the padlock. If we pick it using, say, a hairclip, the edge of the tool will pull the thread and fire the gun at whomever is picking the lock." Basil looked around. "Doctor, do you have your knife?"

Dawsn blinked. "My what?"

Basil rolled his eyes, tapping his foot impatiently. "The knife, Dawson, your pocketknife. The one I told you to keep in your jacket pocket, always?"

Dawson nodded brightly, remembering Basil telling him that after their last case. "Good thinking, Basil," and felt his pockets. He frowned as he patted at his coat and pants. "Erm…Basil?" he asked nervously.

"What?"

"I…I seem to have forgotten it," Dawson said sheepishly.

Basil gaped. "You…you what?!"

Dawson shrugged apologetically. Basil quivered with fury, finally exploding into a loud, angry shout.

"YOU FORGOT YOUR POCKETKNIFE?!"

Dawson looked at the ground, scuffing his shoe against a mound of earth that was peeking up through the floor of the birdcage through a hole.

Basil paced the cage, furiously flapping his arms. "I told you to keep it always, just in case of situations like this, and now you forgot it?" He pulled at the roots of his hair. "And we can't pick the lock, and we can't cut the thread, and now we're stuck in here waiting for Relda to get eaten and us to die." Basil slumped to the ground in defeat.

A quiet sob was heard from the corner. Agatha Muenster was curled up in a little ball on the floor, rocking herself, silent tears streaming down her fur in salty droplets. The boy reached out and patted her on the back sympathetically.

"We're…we're doomed," Mrs. Muenster was whispering. "We're…we're doomed."

"Agatha," Mr. Muenster whispered sharply, "stop that. You're scaring the children." Sure enough, the little girl was clinging to her father, looking to be seconds away from tears as well.

"Come on, now, Basil, you're not helping anyone by acting like the world is over. I know you can think of something to get us out of here." Dawson whispered to Basil.

"Oh, Doctor, I don't think you seem to realize what a dire situation we are in," Basil said gravely.

"Come on, Basil, use your head! There must be something we can do!" Dawson pleaded.

Basil, defeated, turned his head over to avoid eye contact with the doctor. Suddenly, he saw something that he hadn't noticed before. The birdcage had rusted and was overall in pretty bad condition, leaving holes in the bottom of the cage. Basil leapt into a crouch, inspecting a rather large hole in the bottom of the cage. He reached out and took a bit of the dirt between his fingers, rubbing it through his fingertips.

"Moist, but not clay. Perfect for digging," Basil muttered to himself, getting an idea.

Michael Muenster, the little boy, had crawled over to the two. "Are you going to get us out of here?" He asked cautiously, looking wearily back at his huddled family.

Basil cast an appraising look over the small boy. "We might be able to," he murmured. "Are you quite good at digging?"

Michael blinked. "Mother and Father say it isn't proper for me to be digging in the mud."

"Well, we may have to bend the rules of propriety a bit," Basil muttered. "We'll need all the help we can get."

Mr. Muenster crawled over to them too. "I'll help you get us out," he murmured gruffly. "I'll do whatever you need me to do."

The four men started digging through the dirt while the little girl comforted her quietly hysterical mother in the corner. After a few minutes of furious digging and dirt flying everywhere, they had managed to make a small gap in the bottom of the cage that led to the outside.

"Perfect," Basil murmured proudly, his inner symphony orchestra striking up a rendition of his personal theme song. "Now we need someone to crawl through it, find the key, and come back."

"Me!" Michael volunteered, but Mrs. Muenster threw herself across the cage, picking him up in her protective steel grip.

"NO!" She cried.

"Agatha," Mr. Muenster tried feebly to reason with her, but she paid no attention.

"NO!" She repeated. "NO!"

"Very well, Mrs. Muenster," Basil said soothingly. "I'll do it. No worries."

Dawson looked up at Basil. "Are you quite sure?"

Basil nodded, crouching down and crawling easily through the small gap, coming up on the other side dirty but unscathed. If Dawson or Mr. Muenster had tried that, they would have gotten stuck for sure.

Basil opened his mouth to say something, most likely about going to find the key, but suddenly heard a loud scream come from upstairs.

"Relda!" Basil gasped, rushing for the door.

"Basil, wait!" Dawson cried, but it was no use. The slender detective was long gone.

Basil arrived at the large concert hall in time to see Relda shrieking as she was being tied up by a two large, ugly mice with bulging muscles and grimy faces. Ratigan and his minions were just leaving.

"I'll be right back, my dear!" Ratigan called unconcernedly. "I want some fine wine to sip while I watch you get eaten!" The crowd of ruffians chuckled as they swept out of the room.

"Let GO of me!" She yelled. "Let GO!"

One of the mice rolled his eyes and took a gag out of his pocket, trying to tie up her mouth with it. As soon as his fingers were within her reach, however, she lunged out and bit him. Hard.

"OW!" He cried. In retaliation for his sore fingers, he back-hand slapped her across the face.

This was too much for Basil. With a fierce battle cry, he charged forward and slugged the offending thug in the gut.

While Basil was slender and of average strength, he was educated in anatomy and knew precisely where a hit would create the most damage. The thug buckled in pain, clutching his badly bruised gut.

Basil didn't have too much time to savor the victory, because the mouse's buddy tackled him from behind, sending Basil to the ground with a loud, echoing thud. Basil felt all the air leak from his lungs as the giant mouse (Basil knew he couldn't have been more than 7 ounces, but it felt like a baby elephant was sitting on him).

"Get off of him!" Relda shouted, violently shoving herself against the mouse. Her weight wasn't enough to topple him, but it distracted the mouse enough for Basil to kick himself free and scramble to his feet.

The

"Hurry!" Basil said, "We have to get out of here!"

Relda seized his hand and they began to race out of the large room, past the fallen mice and into the next as Ratigan and his army of idiots entered back into the room.

"What was that?!" Ratigan demanded, his wine sloshing angrily in his goblet. "What happened?!" He saw his prisoners running for the door and crushed the goblet in his hand, wine-soaked shards of patterned glass tinkling poignantly to the floor.

"GET THEM!" Shouted Ratigan, pointing at his escaped prisoners.

The angry army of ruffians dashed after them.

"Hurry, hurry!" Basil panted. Relda was breathing hard too as they ran as fast as they could towards the exit. Suddenly, an arm found its way around Basil's neck and he felt himself being jerked back by an unseen attacker. Relda's shriek was cut short when she was grabbed and thrown to the floor. Through the crowd of attackers, Basil's hand lost its grip on Relda's. Feebly, he tried clumsily searching for it, but was yanked off the ground and hoisted up into the air and on somebody's back with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

Ratigan stormed through the crowd, reaching into his cape and fumbling for something.

"RATIGAN!" Basil yelled through gritted teeth. "IF YOU DON'T LET US GO I'LL-"

His threat was cut short by Ratigan slapping him across the face with his glove. The momentary shock wore off rather quickly, as did the sting. Ratigan glowered at him.

"You've been a thorn in my side for too long, Basil of Baker Street," Ratigan spat.

He reached into his cloak and pulled out the silver bell.

Basil's eyes widened as an elegant flick of Ratigan's wrist made the bell sing out a single, silvery note.


	10. Chapter 10

A crash. A shattering of glass in some far off room. And then a long, droning, dreadful sound…

_MMMRRREEEOOWWW…_

Basil and Relda looked on in horror as a dainty, flabby ginger paw stepped into the light. The pretty kitty Felicia started towards them.

Fortunately for Felicia, she hadn't eaten in a while and had lost a fraction of weight. Not enough to keep her from being pudgy, of course, but enough to allow her to slide through the door somewhat easily (she did have to turn at an odd angle to shove herself through, however).

She licked her chops at the sight of the two beautiful morsels staring, terrified, up at her. Saliva rushed to her mouth and a ravenous gleam lit up her eyes.

"Ooh, my fluffy wuffy has been so good and waited for her snack," Ratigan crooned. "Here you are, sweetie-pie. A detective and a slattern, wrapped up so pretty just for you."

Felicia bent over. Relda and Basil gagged at the scent of her breath, which smelled horrifyingly of rotting flesh and rubber (why rubber? Thought Basil. Never mind. Whatever it is, I don't want to know).

Felicia opened her mouth wide, her jaw hinging like a snake's, preparing to swallow them both in one gulp. Relda whimpered slightly at the sight of the glistening white, dagger-like teeth, but took a deep breath and shut her eyes, preparing for the worst. Basil glanced quickly over at her and followed suit.

A loud crash startled Basil, and his eyes snapped open. Everyone else whipped their head to the hall, where the noise had originated. Felicia closed her jaws and looked around in confusion, when suddenly…

AAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

An unearthly howl echoed through the choral hall as a giant beast of sorts charged into the room, paws thundering against the wooden floorboards and slobber trailing in a spidersilk-thin stream from his mouth.

The thugs let go of their captives, dropping Basil and Relda to the floor in their haste to move out of the way. The room exploded into chaos as Toby howled at Felicia, who let out a feline scream and ran as fast as her chubby legs could carry her for the exit.

Felicia could only get through the door at a certain angle. In her haste to get away, she had wedged herself in at a different angle and now was stuck, her large bottom pooching out of the door. Toby ran up to her and chomped on her tail.

"YOOOOWWW!" Felicia screamed as Toby pulled her out of the doorway. She clawed at him, missing his eye by inches but causing him to release her tail anyway.

Felicia the cat ran as fast as she could go, disappearing into the night.

"Felicia! My pretty kitty!" Ratigan called in dismay, glaring up at the insolent dog who had dared to harm his beloved cat.

"You insolent, disgusting creature! I will have you-"

Snap. Toby's jaws closed in around the rat, leaving only a tail protruding from his mouth like a spaghetti noodle.

However, the rat apparently didn't taste very good. Toby spat the creature out onto the floor. Ratigan was slimy with saliva, his fur sticking to his head and his fine clothes drenched. He probably would have been very angry if he had been conscious.

As the thugs ran around them, pushing and shoving, making a ruckus, policemen in their blue uniforms flooded into the room, tackling thugs and waving their batons wildly in the air. At first the ruffians had been fighting back, but there were too many policemen. Before long, all the criminals were either handcuffed or in some sort of a headlock.

Basil knelt down, taking Relda's dainty hand in his and helping her to her feet. She shook her head. "I've absolutely no idea what happened," she murmured.

"Neither have I. Good to see we're on the same page," Basil said briskly.

A familiar voice behind them cried out, "BASIL!"

Basil and Relda whipped their heads towards the source of the voice. Dawson merrily ran to them, his mustache turned up in a happy upside-down u-shape.

"Dawson?!" Basil asked wonderingly as the good doctor hugged him happily. Dawson released Basil and took Relda's hand firmly in his, shaking it once or twice and smiling brightly at her. "But-but…" Basil blinked, confused. "But how did you get out of the cage?"

"There was a double-crosser in Ratigan's midst," Dawson explained, practically jumping with joy. "He stole the key from one of the other guards and snuck down just after you left, letting us all out of the cage. I sent Toby in after you, and he went and got all the policemice in London down here! Isn't it wonderful?"

"And the family…they're all right?" Relda asked worriedly.

"Safe and sound. I checked them and made sure there were no lasting injuries. They're being asked some questions right now!"

Basil blinked. He was glad they had gotten out well enough, but the double-crosser…who was he? Where was he?

"Well, I see you nearly got yourself killed then," Inspector Lestrade stepped up to them, addressing Basil. "But you did find the family, and my men just found the Heart Diamond. So bravo for you, I suppose." Lestrade's voice could not have been more flat and unimpressed sounding. He raised an eyebrow at Relda, eyeing her closely. Basil grunted, an annoyed sound.

"I found Ratigan too," Basil pointed out.

Lestrade blinked. "Ratigan?" He asked, confused. "Ratigan is dead."

What?

"He isn't! I just saw Toby spit him out…over there!" Basil pointed over to the corner where the drenched mastermind had been lying. But he was gone.

"Bu-but...but what?" Basil sputtered. "But I saw him…he was just here…"

"Perhaps you had better take a vacation, Mr. Great Detective," Lestrade said, clapping Basil on the back. "Seems you've been hallucinating."

"He was here," Relda said shortly. "And that family and the doctor and everyone else will say the same thing."

Lestrade bowed his head, tipping his cap. "Apologies, Miss." Lestrade said, his tone changing to a more pleasant, gentlemanly sound. "'Twasn't my meaning to offend."

Relda folded her arms but nodded.

"Well, if Ratigan was here, he isn't now," Lestrade pointed out.

The annoyed, confused Basil rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you for that wonderful observation, Inspector," he muttered sarcastically. Where could Ratigan be?

"You're welcome." Inspector Lestrade said. He smiled at the doctor and Relda. "I'd like to ask you all a few questions about what has happened tonight, if you don't mind."

The questions were the same as they usually were. What had happened? How did it happen? Who was there? Etc, etc. Basil gave the shortest, most uncooperative answers he could, which annoyed Lestrade to no end. But Basil didn't care. He wanted to know what had happened to Ratigan. And who was that double-crosser?

After the questioning was finished at last, Basil, Dawson and Relda boarded the happy dog Toby and began their way back to Baker Street.

"So, that was quite the adventure, wasn't it?" Relda said, grinning widely. It had been terrifying when she was almost dead, of course, but looking back, it was actually quite exciting.

"It was, wasn't it?" Dawson smiled back at her. "It's quite enjoyable, I assure you." He looked kindly at her. "Will you be joining our ranks, Miss Cheddarton? Solving all our cases with us?"

The smile evaporated from Relda's face. "Well…" Relda rubbed at her arms, frowning at the darkness surrounding them. "I-I can't. Singing is my passion. Solving crimes is fun, but I have a career to think about." She smiled rather sadly. "I do enjoy it, though…"

Basil, who hadn't been listening to anything the two had said in the past two minutes, spoke up. "That double-crosser you were talking about, Dawson. Where did he go after he got the police?"

Dawson blinked, startled. "I-er, I don't know. I was too busy sending Toby in, and getting the Muensters the care they needed."

"What did he look like?" Basil inquired further.

Dawson tried to recall. "Um…hm. Let's see. He was tall, average build, at least I would say so… uh, light brown fur and greenish eyes, from what I could see under the hat. Oh, and a mustache- say, Basil, why do you ask?"

Basil narrowed his eyes, thinking. "Just curious," he murmured.

Relda reached out and patted Basil sympathetically on the shoulder, smiling wanly. "I'm worried about Ratigan too," she told him. "Who knows where that piece of filth will turn up next? But don't worry," she gave him a reassuring smile, "you'll get him yet."

Basil smiled slightly at the sight of her hand resting on his shoulder before blinking it away. "I hope so," he muttered.

She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. "You will," she told him.

Dawson, who was pretending to be fiddling with his shoelace, smirked at Basil's silence. HE was sure that if he looked up, Basil would have frozen in place, a large, goofy grin on his face.

Mentally changing subjects, Dawson realized he hadn't gotten a thing to eat since…since he couldn't remember when. Perhaps Mrs. Judson will whip up a batch of crumpets, thought Dawson happily. His stomach growled as Toby bounded off towards 221 ½ Baker Street.

* * *

><p>From the shadows, a tall mouse with light brown fur, wearing a too-big cap and shabby jacket, was leaning against the mildewing brick wall of a fishery. He picked at the jacket, looking scornfully down at the holes that let the cold air seep in. It was far different than the warm long coats he was used to, and he quite looked forward to changing back into his normal garb once he was in his comfy home.<p>

His dark green eyes flicked back up to the departing form of that dog and its passengers.

Basil of Baker Street probably had no idea that he had been followed around London since last Tuesday, ever since word got out about his conversation with Bill Higgins. He had been warned about getting involved with the Rakers, after all, but knowing him, he would just get involved anyway.

When the fog at last obscured his view, the shadowy mouse looked down at the ground. Basil of Baker Street had had a close one tonight. He probably had no idea who it was that had pilfered the key to the cage while the guard was roaring drunk, let the family and that doctor fellow out of that cage, and called Inspector Lestrade immediately to the scene. And even if he did know who the Rakers' infiltrator was, Basil would either refuse to believe it or read it as some sort of conspiratorial strategy move for personal gain.

Edmund sighed. He knew he couldn't keep his baby brother out of harms' way forever, but at the same time he was happy with the way everything had worked out. Brother safe, diamond recovered, family found, and an entire underground organization revealed and arrested. Edmund loved it when things worked out like that.

"Hmm. Now what to do about that guest of mine?" Edmund wondered, turning and walking down the street to his personal carriage. Here, his personal carriage meaning a human child's toy carriage with a wind-up horse, parked in an alleyway and mostly obscured from view. He wound up the key that was in the smiling mechanical horse and let go, sliding into the seat as the toy lurched forward. In the comfort of his coach, Edmund grinned at the unconscious rat that was snoozing away in the other seat. The carriage was having a bit of a hard time moving along with Ratigan's extra weight, but Edmund was too busy wondering about what to do next to worry about that.

"Hm." Edmund wondered. "I should turn him in immediately to the police." But Ratigan might be interesting to talk to. Surely he has some information that Edmund could use at work. Information about criminals.

And Basil so dearly wanted to arrest him. Maybe Edmund could drop off the rat on the doorstep of 221 ½ Baker Street, wrapped up with a bow, as an early Christmas present to Basil.

_The possibilities are endless,_ thought Edmund as the carriage rocked and slowly made its way down the sleeping streets of London.

* * *

><p>Author's Note- And That's All Folks!<p>

For this story, at least.

It might be a little bit, but I plan on at least one more story about Basil's adventures, a sequel that picks up right where this one leaves off. I just need to figure out what exactly I'm going to write. I hope to get Olivia in here somehow, but whatever happens happens, you know?

So, what did you guys think? Did you like it? I hope so. (I'm winking, but you can't see that through your computer screen. At least, I hope not.)

Thank you all for your nice reviews, special shoutout to rosesoffantasy, to whom I am so grateful for her kind and funny words. Hope to hear from all of you!

Thank you for reading and buh-bye for now!

Narwhals Forever


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